


Crash

by SailorSue



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Spencer Reid, Non-Chronological, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSue/pseuds/SailorSue
Summary: Reid has science and a profile to throw at his kidnappers. The unsubs have a 20m chain and a list of rules.





	1. Chapter 1

Humility is born of the spirit, humiliation of the ego ~Alan Cohen

* * *

 

Early on Saturday morning, two months, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since his mom had last recognized him, Spencer Reid realized Diana had disappeared from his apartment while he was showering.

Despite the open front door, he frantically searched for thirty-five seconds to make absolutely certain she was gone, then took another sixty-two seconds to discard his towel and throw on whatever came to hand - underwear, a rumpled t-shirt and pants from the floor of the bathroom, odd socks (thank goodness) from the dresser, and his sneakers. Snatching keys, credentials, phone and wallet from the kitchen tabletop took another fifteen seconds. Exiting the building a further twenty-one. Which meant, factoring in the time it would have taken his mom to get out of the building, and assuming her frail walking speed of 2.7 miles an hour, she could have covered enough distance to be in any one of three possible directions. He couldn’t see her east or west along his street so he rounded the block and ran north, sneaker laces threatening to topple him at any moment. In another one minute and five seconds his mom could be at the intersection of Maple and Fifth, which - oh _god_ \- would mean three more possible directions and a shopping center to search.

But there she was. Bewildered, twitching anxiously in the middle of the sidewalk in her pink dressing gown and slippers, oblivious to the irritated stares of a young couple forced to divert around her and unaware of a man standing uncertainly watching her from the steps of his porch. Spencer heaved breath into his lungs, relieved beyond belief as he clattered to a stop next to her. “Mom!”

Her gaze turned to him, but the confusion remained, tempered now with fear. “Get away from me,” she demanded loudly, backing away a step, and raising her hands to ward him off. “Who are you?”

Those words never stopped stinging, although having it happen in public was a first. The young couple paused, and looked back with expressions of naked curiosity flushing their faces. Spencer ignored them, focused on his mother. “I’m your son,” his voice cracked. “ _Please_ , Mom. It’s Spencer... Crash. I’m here to take you home.”

His mother retreated again until she collided with the railing lining the sidewalk and skittishly felt her way along it a few paces. “Take? You lot are all the same.” Her wild eyes swept over the small but ever-growing crowd then flicked back to him, hatred burning. “It’s for your own good, Diana,” she spat at him. “Be quiet, Diana. Take these pills, or I’ll make you, Diana.”

“Mom,” Spencer pleaded. “You know I’d never...” but he faltered to a stop, his eidetic memory unhelpfully supplying him with image after image of times when he had, in fact, insisted his mother took her drugs, prescription or otherwise.

“You’ve been trying to poison me!” Diana’s voice had developed a shrill edge. “The only reason that you stopped before is they sent you to prison.”

Spencer’s mouth dropped open and the handful of onlookers immediately turned hostile, accusations dancing in their eyes. The man standing on the porch summoned the courage to voice their concerns. “You’d, you’d better b- back off,” he stuttered. “I’m calling the cops.” Emboldened by the murmured agreement his words bought, the man reached into the pocket of his worn jacket and, pulling out a battered cell phone, turned his back to place the call.

An uneasy truce settled while he did so. Diana muttered to herself, fisting her hands and tapping them against her head from time to time, but she seemed to be mostly calm. Spencer kept a worried eye on her but made no attempt to move, reasoning that at this point it would be best to keep the situation defused while waiting for the police to arrive.

As the man hung up and turned back round, Spencer was expecting his gaze to hold an element of challenge - or embarrassment once he realized that Spencer had indeed backed off. Instead he was disconcerted to see the man was intensely anxious with obvious shortness of breath, shaking hands and sweat-speckled brow. But he had little chance to consider the puzzle before flashing lights heralded the arrival of the police.

The unmarked car pulled up next to him and a uniformed policewoman stepped out, pistol already drawn. She immediately focused on Spencer. “Hands where I can see them,” she ordered.

Spencer slowly raised his arms above his shoulders, unsure even as he did so why it was necessary. “I’m an FBI agent,” he told her, and the action was so instinctive one hand was already descending and reaching for his credentials. A waggle of her gun and a soft admonition stopped him. “I’m just getting my badge from my back-right pocket,” he explained, but she kept the weapon levelled and chucked her head at someone behind him. Turning his head slightly, Reid realized the man who had called the cops was reaching for his backside. “Hey!” he exclaimed, and shifted away.

The small click of a safety being removed brought his attention back to the official. “Let him get your badge, Agent.” Then a horrible, smirking smile inexorably spread across her mouth as Spencer stood still under her gaze, flinching as a hand wormed into his pocket and drew out the credentials.

She held out her free hand when the man was done, and glanced briefly at the badge he placed there. “Fake,” she declared languidly and tossed the item into the car behind her. “I guess you have some explaining to do, _Agent_.” Her smile grew impossibly wider. Her tongue darted out to briefly lick her lips.

There were civilians here, in addition to his mother, Spencer thought. He did not know if her weapon was loaded. He briefly considered fleeing the scene, but his best weapon was... it was _always_ his words. “Those credentials are not fake.” He kept his voice level and low. Reasonable. “My name is Dr Spencer Reid. Please get a message to my head of unit. I work with the Behavioral-”

She had realized quickly what he was doing and had already moved to get behind him to transfer him into the car. “You have the right to remain silent,” she shouted him down. “Anything you do say-” ... _Push_... “-can be taken in evidence-” ... _Prick_... “and used against you in a court of law.”

She caught him as he staggered against the side of the car, the drug she’d injected him with quick-acting. He more or less fell into the backseat and rolled onto the floor, mouth slurring around the words he was trying to say. He heard a door slam, and could no longer recall the words anyway.

By the time the car pulled away, Spencer Reid was fully unconscious, hidden on the floor of an unremarkable saloon car.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Now came the dog days – day after day of hot, still summer, when for hours at a time light seemed to be the only thing that moved; the sky – sun, clouds and breeze – awake above the drowsing downs ~ Richard Adams, Watership Down

* * *

 

Rossi put aside thoughts of his Friday evening Frascati – currently chilling at home – and scrolled down through the images on his iPad while Garcia clicked through similar pictures on the screen behind him. “Autopsy reports suggest the victims had suffered repeated physical abuse and restraint, but they also received basic medical attention, food and water. Death in each case was a single stab wound to the heart, delivered at the dump site. The medical examiner thought the multiple shallow cuts on each body were probably made with a different knife to the killing blow. The victims were clothed and showed no signs of sexual abuse.”

The team frowned at the atypical set of details, trying to make sense of the information. After a moment, Alvez took the screen clicker from Garcia. “The bodies were left on display in remote areas post mortem,” the agent continued. “They were propped kneeling back against a tree – which they’d been tied to. Their hands were positioned inside the loop of rope around their neck as if the corpse was trying to loosen it.” Over Penelope’s _urghh, creepy_ he rhetorically asked, “Which begs the question: who’s he displaying them for?” Not waiting for a reply, he jabbed at his iPad and carried on, “The patrol reported having to chase off scavengers, so it certainly wasn’t whoever found them first.”

Emily grimaced at Alvez’s last words. “Okay, we’ll have Reid draw up a geographic profile when he gets in on Monday.” Expectant faces turned her way. “Yes, boy genius will be back with us.”

Everyone perked up at the news that the agent’s latest mandatory 30-day break was over. “Should I drop him off the file?” JJ asked. “I’ll try to catch up with him this weekend.”

“No need. He flicked through it when he came in this lunchtime.” Which meant he could quote it verbatim. “What else have we got?”

It was JJ’s turn to add to the exposition. “The victims cross racial and socio-economic boundaries; two males, one female. Oldest is forty-six, youngest is twenty-two. Elliot O'Connolly has a record, Fabian Legrand and Sheryl Roberts were model citizens. Nothing in here about any possible links between them.”

“That’s where you can start-” Emily began to say when Garcia interrupted. “Hot off the press, intrepid heroes, they were all dog owners.” The team threw questioning looks her way. “What? I did some background checking this afternoon.”

JJ smiled at her and continued the briefing. “The victims were abducted outside their homes early on a Saturday so it’s likely a ruse was used to lure them from their place of safety. Sheryl Roberts was with her elderly father and his therapy dog when they were taken, but the unsub dropped Mr Roberts and, er, Buster at a nearby animal shelter.”

The team absorbed the information, speculating about the profile. When it was clear their discussion wasn’t getting them anywhere, Emily drew the briefing to a close. “Okay, we meet downtown at 9am sharp on Monday.” Surprised eyes met hers: the team was more used to collecting their go-bags for a thirty-minute turnaround time. “Local PD aren’t weekend working this case at the moment; the kills seem to be spaced about six months apart and it’s been two months since Elliot was recovered. The lead detective called us in because he’s making no progress given the inconsistent profile... but we agreed we’ll probably need another body to make headway.”

“It would be good to avoid that,” Rossi objected.

Emily agreed. “That’s why we’re taking the case now, before that happens.”

 

_...It appears the patient was persuaded to leave the Reids’ residence by means of a telephone call while unsupervised. It has not been possible to determine the content of that call, nor - as the call originated from a public call box - who made it. Mrs Reid’s primary carer has been provided suitable advice on screening and recording incoming callers, and he is known to have taken the necessary steps to do so._

_Although the events would undoubtedly have been a traumatic experience for the patient at the time, Mrs Reid has displayed no signs of remembering that anything out of the ordinary has taken place. Furthermore, there are no indications of any acceleration in her psychosis nor of any physical complaint. Essentially, she was returned unharmed._

_While it is recommended that the patient receives routine follow-up health checks for the next month, there is no expectation that any intervention will be required to assure her ongoing well-being..._

 

The first thing Spencer saw when he came to were the links of a steel chain piled in a heap in front of his face. He rolled away from it onto his back and instinctively threw up his left arm to shade his eyes from the bright sunlight. The movement was accompanied by a skittering of chain and a pull on his neck, so it was no surprise when he checked with fumbling fingers to find that the chain was attached to a leather collar which was firmly attached to him. He levered himself up onto his elbows and scanned the rest of his body, finding himself still fully clothed, unhurt, and otherwise unrestrained.

Not yet feeling steady enough to attempt to stand, Spencer took in his surroundings from his mostly prone position. He appeared to be in someone’s backyard. The rear of a single-story brick house overlooked him, the windows of two rooms reflecting the sun and preventing him from working out if he was being observed. The yard itself was planned but poorly maintained. An overgrown perimeter hedge sprawled on the three sides not framed by the house, flower beds were choked with weeds, and a patchy lawn shared space with the small graveled area he lay on. There was an apple tree at the back, bearing not-quite-yet-ripe fruit and underneath that was a small plastic structure of some sort. Behind the hedges ran a wooden fence, about a meter high. He’d be able to see over it if he stood up.

Spencer grimaced and clambered upright. He took a moment to steady himself, relieved that the residual effects of the drug were noticeably fading already. Then he shaded his eyes from the sun and scanned past his enclosure.

There was an enormous field. Acres and acres of it lying fallow and silent, tilled furrows spread with rotted straw stretching away in every direction to caress wooded hills in the distance. Some way off behind the house he could see dust rising from what he presumed to be a deserted track and there were trees shading the driveway of the house, but... he was in the middle of nowhere. ‘ _Ain’t anyone gonna hear you where you are, boy,_ ’ he thought to himself. Dammit. No wonder the unsub had felt secure enough to leave him merely tethered out here.

On which subject... Spencer put his hand to the chain and began to pull it out, walking backwards towards the house as he did so. The heaped pile slithered away rapidly - but since he could see more chain on the grass by the apple tree and wrapped around its trunk, he realized it was much longer than he had initially presumed. Most likely a twenty-meter length, minus the section wrapped around the tree.

He made it a short pace from the wall of the house as the chain pulled taut. An outside faucet was within easy reach and streamed cold, clear water when he briefly turned it on. Peering in through the window he saw a kitchen. Dirty, well-worn surfaces, an old-fashioned white enamel sink piled with dishes, a stand-alone cooker, and a varnished family table laid for two completed the look. There were no signs of cooking and the room was empty of people.

He couldn’t get as close to the other window, but he could get close enough to work out that the room was similarly unoccupied at present. A TV sat silent in front of a two-person settee. Bookshelves lined the entire side of one wall, but rather than literature, they were filled with magazines and small boxes with images of hobby craft items. There was a framed landscape print of the Grand Canyon on the wall. Only one family photograph was displayed, set on a small coffee table in the corner, two unlit candles and a soft toy beside it. It showed a familiar woman facing towards the camera with a baby in her arms; an unknown man had his arms around her and was doting on the small, wrapped bundle. The couple wore clothes fashionable a decade ago, and while choosing to wear them now could be consistent with the general dated feel of the house, Spencer didn’t think so: there were no later pictures of a child visible. The candles, the toy, the standalone table... this was a shrine to a dead infant.

Spencer sighed and turned back to contemplate his predicament. The apple tree next, he decided and trudged over, the hateful chain trailing behind him. He sat himself cross-legged in front of the trunk and examined the securing arrangement. It was nothing fancy - the chain passed around the back of the tree once and was fastened to itself with a weather-worn keyed padlock - but it was effective nonetheless. The tree itself was well established, although Spencer didn’t discount being sufficiently desperate to dig it up by hand and then force the chain over the roots somehow if he was left unsupervised for long enough.

He was close enough now to get a good look at the plastic structure he’d seen before, and as he did so his heart gave an unsteady lurch. It was unmistakably a doghouse. There was a small archway entrance leading to an empty interior. A shallow metal bowl had been placed outside which was currently empty. The structure’s cream sides were colored and patterned to look like wooden boards; the top alluded to roofing tiles.

So, he was leashed with a chain and had been provided with a dog kennel as shelter. And unless he planned to transfer the water from the faucet to his mouth by hand, Spencer was going to have to accept that he’d been given a dog bowl to drink out of. Right at the moment however, Spencer wasn’t prepared to accept anything of the sort. He stretched out a leg and kicked at the doghouse. It rocked backwards into the hedge, rustling the leaves then settled, revealing crushed grass where it had rested beforehand. The kennel was newly placed, he realized. The grass hadn’t had time to die. In fact, it had probably been set out by the unsub specifically for Spencer’s arrival.

He picked up the chain, deciding to complete the exploration of his domain and anxious to put some distance between himself and whatever the doghouse represented about his captor. There wasn’t much else to search - just fence and hedge. But as he looked behind the tree he noticed the fence was defaced over several sections, low down where it was hidden by the hedge. Spencer angled himself closer to look. ‘Toby McIllroy 2009’ was the first thing he made out, followed by fifteen tally marks. ‘Juana Alvera 2011’ was scratched underneath that with thirteen tally marks. Five more names from 2013 to 2016 accompanied tallies between twelve and twenty. The two names in 2017 were Fabian Legrand and Sheryl Roberts. In 2018 there were Stuart Drayman and Elliot O’Connolly. Spencer abruptly spun round, stomach churning, and dry heaved into the weeds.

Not just a dog-obsessed criminal then, but rather the serial killer his team was chasing. Who brutalized his victims for a fortnight or so before murdering them.

This house held two shrines to the dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters.

Look, that’s why there’s rules, understand? So that you think before you break ‘em ~ Thief of Time, Terry Pratchett

* * *

_TRAGEDY STRIKES TWICE AT SECLUDED FARM_

_Rappahannock County, 12 August 2008. The body of local man Frederik Miller (34) was found on Saturday one year to the day after the unexplained death of the couple’s infant daughter._

_Miller reportedly hung himself from one of the trees screening the entrance driveway to his home. Police are not treating his death as suspicious._

_His wife, Imogen Miller (32), bravely holding back her tears, told the Sperryville Gazette, “I found him when I came home from work. I’m in total shock...”_

 

Emily was sheltering just outside her local 7-Eleven debating with herself whether she was prepared to wait for the hailstorm to clear when her phone rang. Getting at her cell involved much juggling of groceries, and she answered with an unusually sharp, “Prentiss.”

“Emily?”

JJ sounded hesitant, which just worsened Emily’s sour mood. “Can’t this wait?” she asked pointlessly, knowing that if it could, JJ would never have called. Perhaps it was a consult she could offload onto Rossi. He owed her. Probably. She squinted at the hail, wondering if it was slackening off.

“It’s Spence. I- Have you heard from him?”

“Reid?” JJ had her focus now. “No, I haven’t. But it’s Sunday evening, Jaje – I wouldn’t expect to hear from him. Why are _you_ worried?”

“I thought I might pop round yesterday, to see Diana. Well, really to check that Spence was coping. I worry about him, y’know.”

Yes, Emily did know. _Tell me not to worry_ , JJ would ask him. And Reid would reassure her that - despite the fading PTSS, the past addiction, the dependent mother who occasionally put bruises on him - he was doing okay.

“He didn’t answer,” JJ continued. “So, I left it, thinking he was busy. But then this afternoon it just didn’t feel right that he hadn’t called back, so I tried again.”

“Okay,” Emily said, sure this was going nowhere good.

“And I just got that stupid answerphone joke of Derek’s.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Y’know: what do you call a frozen dog? From their prank war...?” JJ collected herself. “Never mind, I’m round at his apartment now.”

“And what have you found?” Emily stepped out into the hail, feeling single-handedly in her pockets for her car keys, cursing the bulky groceries making her life difficult.

“His car’s still here, and the door attendant says it hasn’t been moved since he arrived home on Friday night. He’s not answering my knocks on his door. Can you bring your key?”

“Already on my way,” she said, finally getting the trunk open and dumping her wet shopping inside. “See if you can review the security footage in the meantime.”

“Sure,” JJ agreed. “And do you want me to call the rest of the team too?”

Emily thought on this a moment. She wasn’t sure a disaster had befallen Reid, but the agent had a way of getting himself into really, _really_ deep trouble. Her team would probably prefer a false alarm than an after-the-fact notification. And there was always the chance one of them knew where he was. “Call them,” she decided. “But make it clear they do not need to come in at this stage.”

Which was another pointless thing to say, she realized, when she pulled up to find Rossi waiting grim-faced for her. “Everyone but JJ’s gone in to the office,” he said. “Garcia’s going to try to pull an electronic trail.”

“We don’t yet know for sure-” she started to say, pulling out Reid’s apartment key.

But Rossi shook his head. “JJ reviewed the footage,” he said. “Kid ran out after his mother early on Saturday morning. Didn’t even stop to do up his laces.” Rossi sounded as if failing to put on shoes properly was utterly unconscionable. “Neither of them came back.”

“You mean Diana Reid is missing too?” Emily said sharply.

Rossi nodded pensively. “Beginning to look like that, yes.”

“Dammit.” Emily pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and reached into her car for her FBI vest. “Okay, let’s check out his apartment before we head back. Where’s JJ?”

“Here,” came the reply as JJ approached.

“Let the team know we’ll brief at the BAU when we’re done here. Tell Matt and Luke to start looking through Reid’s recent case files.” She holstered her gun. “I want you and Tara to call local hospitals to see if anyone has come across either of them.” JJ nodded, already pulling out her phone.

Rossi had started off towards Reid’s apartment, but Emily hung back. “Hey.” JJ looked up from dialing. “When we catch up with him, get Reid to update his phone message. Seven years is long enough for a joke to have gone stale.” JJ nodded guiltily. “And JJ... what the hell _do_ you call a frozen dog?”

 

“Here, Crash. C’mon boy!”

It was the call that jerked Spencer from sleep rather than the words, which he really didn’t take in at first. He raised his head, pushed hair out of his face and rubbed his eyes. Grass filled his vision and flooded his nostrils with scent. Disorientation fled as he realized where he was and that he was no longer alone.

Overnight he’d mentally updated the unsub’s profile to take account of yesterday’s haphazardly planned abduction and the tired house he found himself at, but it still didn’t make much sense. An organized unsub who left key elements of her plans to opportunistic circumstance? A serial killer who held victims in plain sight of her partner? He needed more data, and that meant interaction.

Spencer stood and brushed himself down. Then he squared his shoulders and walked with little-concealed trepidation towards the unsub. He kept his hands loosely at his sides, non-threatening but ready to defend.

As he approached, Spencer began talking. “What’s happened to my mother? Is she safe?” Because while Juana’s father had been dropped off by the unsub previously, it would be good to be sure it was the same for his mother. “Please let me go. I’m an FBI agent. My team will find you. You’ve no right to do whatever this is. I don’t want to be-.” The chain tautened, lifting off the grass. Spencer coughed and backed up a step.

The unsub was watching him with curiosity, head cocked to the side. Rather than answering, she put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”

Spencer had already stopped talking, and decided to test her reaction by remaining quiet. The unsub curled her lip in triumph but otherwise did nothing. The moment stretched out as they both took the measure of the other. Spencer saw the police officer from yesterday: the same lady as in the family photograph inside. Carefully applied makeup concealed developing wrinkles and her glossy, auburn hair was styled into a trim bob. The suit she now wore was high street, but alterations had been made so it fitted to flatter her figure. Her heels seemed more appropriate for the streets of Washington than rural Virginia. Someone who minded what others thought of her, he concluded, but who was dressed conventionally; she wanted to be taken seriously but not stand out in a crowd. What she made of him in his dirty, rumpled clothing and long hair in disarray he couldn’t imagine.

He opened his mouth to ask after his mother again, but she was ready for him and got in first. “There are rules,” she said.

‘ _Of course there are_ ,’ thought Spencer, but stayed his tongue to listen.

“The first is that you do not speak; you may bark, whine, or growl, but words will be punished by being muzzled.” She looked at him, daring him to disobey, clearly relishing the prospect.

And the problem was, to progress the profile, disobeying was what Spencer needed to try next. He took a deep breath. “Did the others have the same rules?” he asked. “Toby and Juana? Sheryl and Elliot?”

The gag was out of her pocket and in her hand before he’d even finished his question. She’d planned for the conversation to go this way, he supposed, and was sure that it was a routine she’d run through with other victims before him. He couldn’t imagine any newly-captive adult agreeing to bark without a fair amount of coercion, so this had to be an important part of the rite for her. A demand made and refused, and punishment given. Spencer backed away a further step and fisted his hands.

If anything, his retreat excited her further. Her breathing sped up, her pupils dilated and her mouth curled again. But she didn’t close the gap, instead walking around behind him and stooping to pick something off the lawn. As he turned to keep her in view, he remembered the vulnerability of his leash too late to wrap his hands into the chain; her vicious pull on it toppled him and left him choking for breath on the ground. Next thing he knew, a soft ball gag was in his mouth and sure hands were wrapping a strap around the back of his head. He growled in frustration, flailing hands scrabbling at hers to prevent her succeeding. But with a gasp of pleasure and a click, she pushed back from him and stood up. “Too late to growl now,” she mocked while Spencer’s fingers probed the padlock securing the strap buckle. “That stays on for 24 hours.”

As he reached the same conclusion, Spencer dropped his hands and lay silent on the grass, ruing the loss of his most effective weapon.

“The second rule -” He sent an irritated glance her way. He wasn’t done processing the first one yet. “You will not stand. You may crawl, sit, lie down, or beg by kneeling up on your ankles. Standing will be punished by additional restraints.”

Humiliating and inconvenient, Spencer told himself. _Not_ fatal. Additional data for the profile he was going to work up to get out of this. And since he was already meeting the criteria for this rule, it could be ignored for now.

“Third rule...” She contemplated him, head tilted to the side again. “Hmmm.” She bent down over him and tapped his lips where they were slightly parted by the strap. “We’ll come back to the third rule.”

Spencer couldn’t help a nervous swallow, and her eyes tracked the rise and fall of his throat with glee. This was still her script, he realized. Like him, every one of her previous victims had been lying on the ground, gagged, and scared out of their minds at this point.

“You will keep yourself and this yard clean, including burying any excrement, or you will be stripped and hosed down.” Spencer closed his eyes and let her words wash over him, focusing on his breathing. He could feel the early morning sun on his face, but it wasn’t yet really providing any warming effect.

“At night, you will sleep in the kennel, or it will be replaced with a cage.” Oh. Maybe he could stay awake for a fortnight. Or maybe he was going to be sleeping in a plastic doghouse. He started drumming his fingers against the ground, tension needing to escape his body before he split in half.

A sharp point of pressure on his chest made him snap his eyes open. A spiked heel was resting over his ribs. “You will keep your eyes open and lowered while I am with you. If you do not, I will use a knife on you.” The heel was removed, but Spencer had no time to be relieved before the unsub dropped to her knee on his gut instead, forcing an ‘ouf’ of pain past his gag. He instinctively tried to curl into the hurt, eyes tearing and face scrunching up. He heard the unsub give a keen of pleasure above him and his wrist was seized and pulled upwards. Wet heat traced the outside of his arm from elbow to wrist, and he scarcely had time to realize she had just licked him before the nerve endings on the outside of his elbow flared in pain. “Hold still, there’s a good boy,” she crooned, then dragged the knife upwards towards her vice-like hold on his wrist, cutting deep into his skin. Spencer opened his mouth and garbled a scream past the gag.

She released her grip and stood back up while he was still panting through the pain. His arm flopped down to rest on his stomach. Both their gazes fixed on the blood seeping from the deep slash and running down to stain his t-shirt. “I will brand your skin if you do not answer appropriately to your name.” Oh god, she was still going? His head was filled with a light buzzing and he was having difficulty focusing on her words. She’d said a brand? None of the victims they’d found had had that; had they all complied or was this a bluff? “Your name...” she said, and squatted down to trace her fingers through his cut. After a moment, Spencer realized she was writing letters in the congealing liquid. Her voice when she spoke again was breathless with anticipation. “Your name is _Crash_.” She picked up his arm and held it in front of his face so he could look for himself at the rounded, evenly sized script. His breath caught. There was no mistaking it, she knew his mother’s old nickname for him. The pet name which represented his mother’s unconditional love for him, and now it was, what, going to be _literally_ his pet name? How in the hell had she known to pick it?

He heard the unsub hum in satisfaction above him, but he was too dazed to watch as she walked away from him into the house. When he heard a door slam, he curled on his side, careful to keep his cut uncontaminated, and let trembles of shock consume him.


	4. Chapter 4

And I love to live so pleasantly / Live this life of luxury /  
Lazing on a sunny afternoon / In the summertime

~ Sunny Afternoon, The Kinks

* * *

 

Sunday night’s witching hour saw them gathered at the BAU round table, energy levels flagging as quickly as their concern rose.

“Nothing?” Emily sought to confirm.

Garcia didn’t look like she knew whether to nod, shake her head or cry. “Nada. He hasn’t withdrawn cash, used a credit card, or a library one. He hasn’t appeared on any CCTV since he ran up Fifth Street. His cell goes straight to voicemail -” Beside her, JJ flushed. “- and hasn’t pinged off any towers since, well, about the same time he disappeared. Our junior G-man and his mom have dropped into an abyss of electronic nothingness, which is not an easy thing to do when you are right in the middle of a web of _Thing_ ness.”

“How about hospitals?” Emily turned to Dr Lewis. “Any news from them?” Tara frowned, and glanced uneasily at the screen still showing the images from the case briefing on Friday. Emily had pushed the case to the back of her mind until offloaded onto a different team but now followed her gaze, concern spiking, and saw her colleagues also stiffen at the disturbing tell.

“I may have a lead on Diana Reid,” Tara said. “I’m waiting for the hospital to send through a photograph to be sure. But a Jane Doe matching Diana’s description and behavior was brought in on Saturday from an upstate animal rescue shelter. The cops are waiting to interview her as a possible victim of our unsub once she’s less combative.”

They all digested this news. “The kid doesn’t match our victimology,” Rossi eventually offered. “He doesn’t have a pet.”

“He’s _never_ had a pet,” JJ corrected, a tell-tale shine to her eyes. “He doesn’t get on with animals.”

Tara looked steadily across at them. “Like I said, it’s just a possible lead.”

“Okay,” Emily said. “We’ll know soon enough. Let’s move on. Alvez, anything?”

Luke and Matt exchanged an uneasy glance. “Ah, the only file we’ve flagged so far is our current case,” Luke apologized. “There are similarities to the unsub’s abduction MO - early on a Saturday, sophisticated avoidance of surveillance and execution of an elaborate trap to draw the victim away from their residence rather than blitzing them.”

“Nothing definite,” Matt added.

“Nothing at his flat either,” continued Rossi. “No packing done for himself or his mother. No note left for us. Alarm unset and coffee still on. The kid was interrupted on Saturday morning,” he concluded, “and ran out his flat.”

Emily stood up. “And now he’s missing and his mother is presently unaccounted for. Garcia,” she ordered, “make a video surveillance net. I want to know everyone who went in and out of the area where the Reids disappeared within a 30-minute window either side. Prioritize roads leading upstate.” Garcia gave a thumbs up and departed in a waft of organza and ribbons. “Alvez, I want you at the scene on Fifth for now, but be ready to transfer upstate. JJ, go with him and brief the local cops.” Nods were given. “Matt, stick with the files.” Matt winced, knowing the large pile that remaining in the bullpen, but nodded too. “That leaves three of us to examine what it would mean for our case if this Jane Doe does turn out to be Diana.” She paused, and wondered whether to add, ‘Just in case’... but the moment passed, and Emily realized that she’d already accepted that the hospital photographs were a formality. “That’s it,” she said instead. “End briefing. Let’s get to it.”

The others filed out until only she, Lewis and Rossi remained. “God,” Emily said, collapsing into a chair, suddenly unable to hide how utterly bone weary she was. “How much terrible luck can one agent have?”

“Hey, the kid’s tough,” Rossi said. “Tougher than he was, even. He’ll be working his end to get out. And we’re the best there is. We’ll find him.”

Emily sighed. “Don’t try to sugar coat this. Those victims had been brutalized over several weeks. Reid’s in a whole world of trouble right now.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. But he’ll also keep his head about him. We need to do the same.”

Emily looked back at him and nodded, accepting the truth of this. Then she put on her game face; time to pull apart the personal life of one Dr Spencer Reid to work out where he’d crossed paths with their current unsub.

 

_...Miss Rayworth came forward following an appeal for witnesses; subsequent follow up with her fiancé has confirmed her recollection of events. Miss Rayworth encountered Mrs Reid at approximately 0815 on Saturday morning partway along Fifth Street. An unkempt young man - dirty clothes and scruffy long hair, but presumed to be SSA Reid - ran up and an altercation began. Miss Rayworth reported that once the female assailant arrived, the young man attempted to claim he was an FBI agent. However, since the onlookers had ascertained SSA Reid had done time and it appears he was also exhibiting some signs of being under the influence (Miss Rayworth recalls he collapsed into the car), Miss Rayworth did not believe him. Once SSA Reid had been removed from the scene, Miss Rayworth left Mrs Reid in the care of the male assailant._

_Miss Rayworth describes the female assailant as white, medium height, well-groomed and wearing a police officer’s uniform. She spoke with a Virginia accent. The male assailant is described as white, of medium height and build, no discernible accent but a slight stutter..._

 

He was left alone until mid-afternoon on Sunday. By that stage Spencer had retreated to the shade under the apple tree, and was drowsing, slouched against the trunk. His t-shirt was laid out on the grass to dry after being used as an impromptu all-over washcloth, neckline ripped wide to pass over his shoulders. His cut had been thoroughly sluiced with water, and although it hurt with a dull, throbbing sting, it had at least stopped actively bleeding.

The bang of a door roused him to action. He was on his feet and crossing to fetch his t-shirt before he’d really thought his actions through. By the time memory caught up with him, freezing his footsteps, he was no longer alone in the yard.

It wasn’t the same unsub. Instead, a mousy man stood out of range, holding a first aid kit up in front of him like a shield and avoiding Spencer’s accusing gaze. Although not the same man as in the family photograph, it _was_ the same man who’d called the police yesterday; he should have known.

He took the remaining few paces to reach his t-shirt and plucked it from where it lay. Dry enough, he decided, and stepped into it, pulling it up his body. He had a second profile to develop now, one he felt considerably more optimistic about in terms of leveraging an escape.

“Ck- Crash,” the man stuttered. “I need you to sh- shorten it.”

No admonition for standing. Spencer wasn’t surprised; this was the non-assertive partner in the team. But that didn’t mean he understood what the man had asked him to do. Spencer looked blankly across, and the man hefted the first aid box in answer.

Right, he’d got that much, thank you. This was the medical care part of his victim experience. He stepped forward to collect the kit...

...and the man snarled, dropped the box and rushed him. Spencer was so surprised at the sudden change in demeanor that he only just managed to sidestep the knockdown.

The unsub staggered as he overshot his intended target. Spencer wheeled round to face him and, abruptly realising the man was nearer to the tree than him, took a fistful of chain so he couldn’t be pulled off his feet again. Turning part sideways-on, he drew his free hand back, transferred his weight and did everything he could to look as menacing as possible.

The man regained his feet and turned back to Spencer, rage purpling his face, breathing ragged, and – oh _god_ – somehow now holding a knife.

Before the man could launch his next attack, however, there was a sharp rap on the kitchen window. Spencer kept his focus on the unsub, who looked across at the window, ducked his head, and visibly attempted to control his aggression. Once he’d finally got himself under enough control to sheath the knife, the unsub pointed at the chain still in Spencer’s hand. “S- shorten it, stupid.”

Oh. Spencer had already had a demonstration of how the unsub reacted when crossed, and he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about precipitating another demonstration without good reason. He thought for a moment, released the chain then walked around the man to the tree. Putting steadying fingers on the loop of chain around the trunk, he circled the tree once. He looked back at the unsub, who gave a self-satisfied nod. Encouraged, Spencer continued to walk in circles, putting loop after loop around the tree. But as the chain began to run out to its last few meters, he again looked uncertainly at the man. How far did he need to go here?

The man had collected the first aid kit again and was now crossing the lawn towards him, carefully maintaining his distance. He had a small metal object in his hand, which he held up, then tossed to Spencer’s feet. “Fa- fasten it at the, the end,” he said.

Spencer bent to collect the object, grimacing but unsurprised to find it was another keyed padlock. Okay, he could do this. He needed to keep this man calm. A twist of the key and the padlock popped open. More paces to take the slack out of the chain. He cheek came up against the bark. Spencer felt down to his neck, slipped the padlock shank through the metal loop at the front of his collar and then passed it through a link in the chain around the tree. Snapping the padlock shut, he pulled out the key.

“Throw it back.” Spencer twisted his arm awkwardly to throw the key away. “S- spread your legs and wrap the, the chain round your other arm.

_Seriously?_ What sort of ninja did the unsub think he was to be able to attack from this position? Although come to think of it, his mother had mentioned his time in jail. Spencer huffed in frustration then shuffled his legs to widen his stance and threaded his uninjured arm through the loosest loop of chain. If this wasn’t about restraint so his arm could be tended to, he was in serious trouble here.

But it was. He smelled the odor of antiseptic before it hit the knife wound with a cooling sting. The unsub took his time, ostensibly checking the injury. “Your mom,” he began. “S- she told me she doesn’t want you anymore. She said I could take you.” He paused to see the effect his words were having on Spencer.

Gagged and cheek pressed against the tree, the agent couldn’t easily communicate that he knew the words were lies. He tried anyway. “Mmuuh ouhh oo.”

The unsub paused his slapdash first aid. “Huh?” he said.

Hopeless.

After a moment, Spencer felt a bandage wrap around his elbow. Unfortunately, the unsub started talking again, his ugly words spilling into the summer afternoon. “She asked me t- to make sure you got what you deserved. Said she knows how g- good I am at this. It’s true: I get asked all the time. She was so grateful when I said I’d help. _Really_ grateful, if you know wh- what I mean.” And the man laughed.

Face pressed into earthy scents, crude taunts… how horribly familiar this was. _Don’t react,_ Spencer told himself, disregarding his thumping heartbeat. _He’ll stop if he doesn’t get a rise out of you_. And after all, there were only so many mom jokes.

There was also only so much care his arm needed. Before too long, the unsub had roughly bandaged it from elbow to wrist. “Keep it c- clean and dry, Crash,” he advised, and Spencer grimaced and nodded.

A small object was held against his palm, and Spencer - sure it was the key - carefully transferred it to his fingertips and from there to the lock. He could hear the man moving away, so he freed his other hand and got his feet underneath himself again. Removing the lock was a relief: he wasted no time in unwinding just enough chain to be able to reach to remove the ant slowly working its way up his shin.

“I n- need to take that back with me.” Spencer looked at the padlock still in his hand, trusted his instincts, and held it out rather than throwing it across, holding the man’s gaze as unthreateningly as he could. The profile was screaming at him that if he wanted to build a rapport, he needed to show he wasn’t intimidated. The man teetered for an endless moment, then darted forward and snatched the lock from his hand. The man was clearly flustered as he gathered his things, and Spencer wondered if he would say anything further. But in the end, he shuffled back to the house without another word, and Spencer sighed and recommenced unwinding himself from the tree.

 

The picture of Jane Doe came through about 4am on Monday morning. Tara rang the hospital to pass on their thanks and to formally identify the woman as Diana Reid, a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s.

By 7am, the team, minus JJ and Luke - who were still interviewing at the dog shelter - and Garcia - still finalizing the CCTV images - had decamped to their case HQ to meet the lead detective and set up. As they settled in, Matt stepped up to the board and added the hospital’s picture of Diana. Her piercing, haunted gaze challenged them, as if she had no business being displayed on a map of DC, alongside a photograph of an elderly man with his dog and 3 murder victims.

Emily’s eyes swept across the board: Fabian smiling shyly up at his unseen friend behind the camera, Sheryl serious for a passport shot, Elliot’s face twisted with rage from shouting at a journalist. All full of life, all unrecognizable as the beaten, broken, _dead_ faces in the autopsy pictures which hung immediately beneath.

It was Rossi who’d dug out an A5 glossy of their colleague and who reluctantly approached the board too to affix the agent’s image next to Elliot’s. Rossi who held his hand steady to write ‘Spencer Reid - 4’ underneath. He’d chosen a recent photograph - all stern features, troubled gaze, and untidy moustache. A million miles from a police mugshot showing a wild-eyed gringo in Mexico, and lightyears from video images of a distressed youth in Georgia, but Emily couldn’t help herself making the comparisons.

“Let’s take a moment,” she said. “It’s okay to feel a bit overwhelmed here.”


	5. Chapter 5

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

* * *

 

“Crash? Here, boy.”

As on the morning before, Spencer jerked awake at the call, kicking out his legs. This time, however, the back of his head rebounded painfully off an edge and his legs twisted crazily upwards against a slippery surface. He shouted out in surprise, only to jar soreness on the sides of his mouth. What the...?

Oh. Right. Woof.

The decision on whether or not to sleep in the doghouse had effectively been made for him the evening before when a summer shower had morphed into a hailstorm. The shelter he’d retreated to was cramped and stifling, so as soon as the thunderstorm had passed, Spencer had stuck his head out the entrance, curled up and gone to sleep. The confinement was torture on his muscles however. Spencer wasn’t sure he would be able to stand this morning even if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t. Well, he _did_. But he wasn’t going to. This woman wanted a pet dog? The profile told him that was what he needed to give her, whatever it cost him in dignity, until he either persuaded her partner to help him, escaped on his own, or his team worked out where he was. If he wanted to stay alive, that is.

He steeled himself and wriggled out of the small enclosure. Arranging himself on hands and knees, he gave an all-over shake of his body to remove some of the stiffness then...

... come on, Spencer. You’ve faced worse than this. This is nothing. Deep breath.

“Ouhh,” he barked through the gag. It would have to do.

Starting to crawl through the dry earth underneath the tree then onto the lawn didn’t require nearly as much internal barracking - perhaps the mental hurdle really did get easier each time. It wasn’t exactly fast progress, so he yapped another ‘ouhh’ halfway there.

Although he kept his gaze lowered as instructed, he could tell she was mesmerized. He wondered why, and decided it was more likely because she was astonished she’d persuaded a federal agent to crawl for her rather than his early compliance.

He knelt back on his ankles when he reached a respectful distance from her. After a second’s further internal tussle, he also raised his hands to his chest in imitation of a begging animal and whined. Perhaps he as laying it on a bit thick, he worried, before a groan of arousal from the unsub reassured him.

“ _Good_ boy.” She stepped forward, reached out a hand and mussed his hair, scratching the nape of his neck in a way that - in any other circumstance - would have been pleasant. “Good boy, Crash.” She began to fiddle with the strap of his gag, much to his relief. As soon as his mouth came free, he darted his head forward to lick her hand, earning a shuddering exhalation from her.

She drew a dog chew toy from her pocket and held it in front of his downcast gaze. “Do you like it, Crash?” For a second, he baulked at her unanticipated action before forcing himself to rally, closing his mouth on a section and tugging at it. The unsub playfully tugged back a few times. “I can see you do. Keep that for today while I’m out.” Then she let go, and Spencer tumbled backwards, toy still dangling stupidly from his mouth. The unsub laughed, then coughed and stood straighter. “Crash, sit!” she commanded.

Uh oh. Spencer let the toy fall from his mouth, then sat back on his heels with his palms flat on the ground in front of him, head hanging down. He hoped this was what she meant; it was the one position she’d mentioned he hadn’t been completely sure of. She tsked and kicked his ankles out so that his bottom rested directly on the ground. It wasn’t terribly comfortable and Spencer found himself hoping he wouldn’t be kept like this for long.

“We need to cover Rule Three,” she announced.

Ah. Of course. Now that his mouth was free, she needed to humiliate him when he ate. He’d worked out what was coming the previous evening when he’d caught sight of the dog bowl again, so he was able to face this pronouncement with relative equanimity.

“You will receive your food in a dog bowl. You will not use your hands in any way to help you eat, including by holding your hair back.” Spencer grimaced, that could get very messy. “Failure to comply will result in a haircut, handcuffs, or withdrawal of food privileges as the mood takes me.” Spencer twitched. Okay, maybe he hadn’t _completely_ anticipated this rule. “You will be responsible for fetching your own water in the same bowl. You may not use your hands in any way other than extending your reach for essential tasks such as operating the faucet. You may only lap the water, and you may only do so by your kennel. Failure to follow these instructions will result in a beating.” She paused, and Spencer tried to assess just how many trips he was going to need to make crawling the length of the yard to keep himself hydrated given the bowl could only be carried in his mouth. He supposed he’d soon find out.

Sooner than expected as it turned out: the unsub decided she wanted a demonstration. So he plodded on all fours to his doghouse, nosed the bowl upside-down and picked it up with his teeth gripping the thin, metal base of the rim. A crawl towards the faucet, and when the chain pulled taut he spat the bowl out, turned the water on, and pushed the bowl underneath to catch the flow. The fall was such that most of the water splashed straight out so after a few seconds Spencer turned the water off, and made to pick the bowl back up.

“No, Crash!” The unsub smacked him, rocking him forward against the collar so that for a shocking few seconds, he couldn’t breathe. He scrabbled to get his limbs coordinated enough to take his weight again while the unsub lectured him. “You need to pick the bowl up from the ground with your _mouth_. Your hands may only be used to push it into reach.”

Right. Spencer slid the bowl towards himself and bent down to get his mouth round the wide part of the rim. It was not easy to do, and the sharp angle of carry that he eventually settled on tipped most of the water back out. Still, he had unarguably picked the damn thing up, so he set off back towards the kennel, spilling a little more every few shuffles.

By the time he reached his destination and set the bowl down, it would have been generous to describe what was left as a few drops. Nevertheless, Spencer stuck his tongue out and lapped at the residue, tears of frustration prickling. One rolled down his nose and into the bowl, so he lapped that up too.

The unsub took a sharp inhalation as she saw this. Then she cupped his chin, bent down and licked his tearful eyes. “Oh, I’m going to _enjoy_ you,” she gloated, and patted him on the head.

 

By midday on Monday, the team was running on fumes. Still, progress had been made. Garcia had identified _two_ cars of interest - both had false plates - and Alvez had matched one to a vehicle the shelter staff reported as having been in the area when Diana was released. Local police had recovered the same car a half mile down the road and were presently dusting it for prints. Across town, a small team was now working with their tech wizard to track the other car’s journey through the city in the hopes of identifying where Spencer might have been taken.

At the station, the team was grappling with what having two unsubs meant for their profile. “It’s not uncommon for a partnership to have one dominant individual,” Tara noted.

This was the point at which Reid would offer up a statistic, Emily thought. Instead she said, “Okay, that’s a start. Which one was the female?”

“Most probably the dominant,” said Simmons. “Reid was the target and the main threat, so she would want to keep him close.”

“So, we have a partnership targeting across race, sex, age, neighborhoods, and socio-economic boundaries,” Emily summarized. “What’s the link? Why these victims? Throw me a bone here.”

There was a moment’s exhausted silence, then JJ gave an odd hiccupping gasp and spoke up. “Look at the animals again,” she suggested. “We know Fabian kept a rescue dog which was reportedly terrified of everyone including its new owner. Sheryl had a therapy dog for her father but when we talked to them, the shelter said she hated it. Elliot had a conviction for cruelty to his pet.”

Alvez leaned forward. “You think the unsubs are targeting people they see as being cruel to animals?”

“I think there’s at least a chance they’re vigilantes,” JJ agreed. “They could believe they have a mission to eliminate anyone unworthy of owning a pet.”

“...And Reid doesn’t get on with animals,” Rossi concluded, then frowned. “That doesn’t seem like the strongest reason to abduct him. He’s hardly unique in that.”

“Because I don’t think that is the reason,” answered JJ. “I think it’s his answerphone message.”

There was a beat of silence. “You’re kidding me,” Emily deadpanned. “A joke about a frozen dog?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Not on its own. I- Have _any_ of you listened to it?” She was met by five blank faces. “Am I seriously the only one who ever rings him?”

“Hey!” Rossi objected. “The kid picks up my calls.”

JJ threw him a suspicious look, then drew her mobile out, dialed a number and depressed the speaker button. Ringing filled the room, before a click signaled an answering service kicking in. “Hello, this is SSA Dr Spencer Reid PhD, PhD, PhD, FBI,” boomed Morgan’s voice. “I’m busy right now, so leave a message after the tone...

“But first...! What do you call a frozen dog? A pupsicle! Argh! Down, Frosty! Stop biting.” The sound of Morgan slapping a wall or similar was followed by a few lame impressions of a wounded animal. “Poor Frosty,” Morgan finished insincerely just before the message ended with a beep, leaving a dumbfounded team in its wake.

“I’m going to kill Morgan,” Emily said with feeling after a moment. “Reid has had that as his official voicemail for nearly a _decade_?” JJ gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Someone with reduced ability to feel empathy might not pick up that it wasn’t real,” Tara suggested, choosing her words carefully although the profilers all knew what she meant. “They might hear the message and think Doctor Reid was mistreating his pet.”

There was often a moment while chasing an unsub when things seemed to click where previously there had merely been facts swirling around. Emily recognized that this was one of those moments. But whereas usually it gave her a thrill of renewed impetus, this time she felt weighed down. The next few minutes were going to be nasty. “Garcia, pull Reid’s unanswered phone records for the last 6 months,” she requested.

Matt waited until Garcia had hung up before giving Tara an unhappy look. “A reduced ability to feel empathy could signify a sociopath.”

“Except,” demurred Luke, “A sociopath wouldn’t be capable of the level of organization we’ve seen.”

“No,” Tara agreed. “They tend to be extremely disorganized.”

“And prone to violent outbursts,” Emily added. “How does that fit with the patterns of abuse we’ve seen on each of the victims?”

Rossi stood up and walked to the board. “I don’t think it does,” he said slowly, picking off one of the autopsy photographs and bringing it back to the table. “Look at these knife wounds. Each one except the final stab to the heart is controlled: same depth, straight line, wide distribution across the torso. If you’re in a rage, you strike out at your victim.”

They looked. “There’s a lot of care been taken with those cuts,” Simmons agreed.

Luke grimaced. “They’re meticulous.”

Emily ran a worried hand through her hair. “We should also bear in mind that the female unsub convinced the crowd not to help Reid.” Manipulation. Control. Lack of empathy. Planning. Predatory behavior. Violence. “I actually can’t bring myself to say it.”

Simmons helped her out. “You think Reid is currently being held by a psychopath?”

 _No_ , Emily thought, I think Reid’s currently being _tortured_ by a psychopath. But outwardly she just nodded.

“What about the lack of sexual abuse?” Rossi asked. “Not to put too fine a point on it, that’s not exactly typical behavior.”

“Except she has a partner,” Dr Lewis reminded them. “I expect she’s managing her sex drive via an actual consensual relationship.”

“I think we’re ready to give the profile,” Emily announced. “And then, as difficult as it sounds, everyone should at least try to take a break while Garcia works her magic; Reid is going to need us to stay sharp here.”

 

_Emily gestured at the chair on the opposite side of her office desk. Reid took the hint and sat down, looking no less awkward as he settled into it than he had hovering by her door. “Welcome back,” she said, keeping it simple. He nodded, but his gaze didn’t move from the front of a closed manila file she had in front of her, ‘REID, Spencer’ typed on its label. Emily tapped the file. “You know what’s in here.”_

_It wasn’t a question; Reid’s acknowledging signature was at the bottom of his Return to Work assessment. Nevertheless, Reid nodded again. “Doctor Reid is already subject to a Conditional Return decision following his incarceration at Millburn Correctional Facility,” he quoted, still not looking her in the eye. “He has passed his physical and states he has suffered no additional psychosomatic symptoms as a result of his recent abduction. He-”_

_“Hold it right there, Buster,” she interjected, cutting him off mid flow. He stopped and dropped his gaze still further, head bent almost at right angles. “Who do you think you are trying to kid here?”_

_He squirmed under her scrutiny. “I didn’t lie.”_

_Emily clasped her hands in front of her on the desk and waited him out. Of course, he knew exactly what she was doing, and waited too, damn him. One of them had to give. “Okay - how much worse are the symptoms you already had?”_

_He flinched and she sighed. “Come on, Reid, you know how important these assessments are. You’ve a responsibility to cooperate so that the bureau can be sure you won’t lose it on a shout.”_

_Nothing._

_“Alright, here’s what’s going to happen. The bureau has seen fit to reinstate you with the same conditions as before, but I’m placing you on desk duty until I see you look JJ in the eye and tell her you’re fine when she asks you.” Reid finally looked across at her, but it was with betrayal showing in his expression. “Or you can pick this file up off my desk and bring it back when it’s done properly.”_

_He swallowed once, and for a moment Emily thought he might actually break down in front of her. But then a shaking hand snaked out and took the file. He stood and walked away from her without a word._

_“Reid,” she said as he reached the door. “Spencer.” He stopped but didn’t turn around. “I know you don’t like going backwards with your recovery. But denial won’t make it better. Get yourself the help you need.”_

_He paused a moment longer in her doorway, tension clear in the set of his back, then he took a step further and was gone._

 

Monday afternoon, Spencer was once again dozing in the shade, propping up the apple tree, when a low, insistent growling dragged him awake. He opened his eyes to the sight of the male unsub approaching, a powerful dog with odd triangular eyes set in a wedge-shaped head stalking next to him. About half a meter tall, the dog had its teeth bared, its body tense under fawn fur. Its growling was clearly directed at him, and it was as intimidating as hell.

“She doesn’t li- like you,” stuttered the familiar voice.

 _I don’t like her much either_ , Spencer managed not to reply, shrinking away from the irate animal.

“Trained to kill, this breed. M- m- move, and she’ll have you.”

“Not, not the breed,” Spencer croaked in contradiction. “The majority of bull terriers have an even temperament.”

The dog drew close, placed a paw on his stomach and transferred weight onto it. Claws dug into flesh and the bitch rolled slightly given the uneven terrain she was using to find purchase. Spencer fought his instinct to shrug her off, certain it would end badly. The growls continued unabated, contrasting with his own increasingly harsh respiration.

A rear leg made its way onto his thigh and bared teeth came that much closer to his face. “Oh n- no,” Spencer begged, but the unsub just laughed. And, “ _Please_ ,” voice cracking, as another limb was placed on his shoulder. Spencer closed his eyes, able to smell nothing but the dog’s breath, saliva flicking onto his face, his hearing assailed by the aggressive, unending growls. His nerve endings fizzed with anticipation of pain, his brain whirred through statistics (931 dog bite cases per _day_ in US hospital emergency departments; 20 percent of dog bites result in infection; 39 fatal attacks in 2017). And over it all, he could hear the unsub taunting him and laughing.

The moment stretched, and stretched, and stretched, but eventually the growling dialed down a notch and Spencer dared crack open one eye. The dog caught him at it, and stepped back up the threatening behavior, but as soon as Spencer looked away, she quietened again.

“Please,” Spencer quavered, “Call off your dog.”

“Na- Nancy’s not mine.”

 _Nancy as in Oliver Twist_? Spencer’s mind gratefully seized upon the distraction. “Did you know,” he said, voice as steady as he could make it albeit a pitch higher than usual, “That although Sikes’s dog Bullseye is popularly considered to be a bull terrier, Dickens never actually described the breed?” The unsub was looking at him as if he’d gone mad, but Nancy finally stopped growling to take an exploratory snuffle of his hair. Spencer swallowed and continued his monologue. “In fact, you’d be surprised how little description dogs receive in literature.” He thought a moment and quoted, “ _As they were speaking, a dog that had been lying asleep raised his head and pricked up his ears. This was Argos, whom Odysseus had bred before setting out for Troy_ ...but even Homer doesn’t say much beyond the dog’s traits of, umm, speed, strength and tracking ability. Of course, there are exceptions - Jack London made Buck a main character in _Call of the Wild_ and there’s Hergé’s Snowy, Knight’s Lassie-”

The unsub scowled as the bitch decided to yip at Spencer in a measure of acceptance. “Nance, heel,” he interrupted. “Crash, sh- shut the fuck up.”

Spencer had been silenced anyway by the dog using his stomach as a springboard. As he gasped, she skulked over to the unsub and was lightly kicked into a sit.

“Stupid r- rescue dog,” the unsub groused, petting the animal. “Don’t know who’s looking out for you, do you?”

Spencer pulled himself into a proper sitting position against the tree, relief surging at his reprieve. “I’m surprised she accepted me,” he mentioned conversationally, thinking he might as well seize the moment. “Animals and kids often give me a frosty reception. My friends call it the Reid...” but he tailed off as the unsub swung his head in Spencer’s direction. The agent realized he’d made a grave mistake somehow. As the man strode over to him, he tried to apologize, scrambling crabwise backwards.

To no avail. The first backhand snapped his head to the side. The follow up sent him sprawling to his back, and the rage filled kick which came next threw him tumbling into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

How many legs does a dog have if you call his tail a leg?  
Four. Saying that a tail is a leg doesn’t make it a leg. ~ Abraham Lincoln

* * *

The unsub thought there was something very different about Crash. It hadn’t been immediately apparent in the heady rush of the arrest, nor the awkward transfer of his limp body to her yard. She’d had no inkling when riveting the leather collar and chain around his unresisting throat. And he had also been much like the others when he lay shocked and shaking while she outlined the rules. Yet she could feel the intelligence of this pet in a way that she had quickly beaten and bled out of the others. Crash could see through her.

It was instinctive to push against that clever mind. To order her pup to ever more stupidity. He complied each time, although the humiliation flushed his face. But his uncomfortable, calculated compliance was far from the fearful submission to which many of her previous pets had surrendered by this point, and it left her confused – mind jarring that this one was not satisfying her cravings.

She wanted to beat her pet for disobedience. To cut him and watch together as his blood meandered and dribbled across his skin. But there were rules.

It was the first time she’d been the one who felt trapped by them.

 

_JJ walked through the BAU’s glass doors and gave a general ‘good morning’ to the room at large. She got a few greetings, mumbles, and half-hearted waves in return. Her friend notably didn’t acknowledge her._

_She stopped by his desk. “Hey,” she said._

_He didn’t look up. “Hey.” He jabbed his signature at the bottom of the file he’d just reviewed, reached across for the next, flipped it open and started scanning._

_“Spence?” She couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice. “Are you okay?”_

_“Has Prentiss caught up with you yet?” he asked instead, signing off that file too, tossing it to the side and starting on another._

_“About what?”_

_He shrugged in answer. The small pile of reviewed files chose that moment to slide off the desk and came to a rest on the floor, contents spilling out. Reid froze in the act of signing off the next file, then violently pushed his chair back, swept up the files and dumped them haphazardly onto his desk. He threw himself back into the chair. “Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?” he snapped, scribbling his name._

_JJ frowned. “Spence? Stop. What’s going on?”_

_He ignored her, flicking through the next file, the heel of his scarred hand subconsciously rising to rub his eye._

_“Spence? Talk to me.” And she placed a gentle hand on his arm._

_It was almost a mistake. Reid startled back to his feet, gasping, before collecting himself, setting the file down and leaning, straight armed, over his desk. “I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I mean, literally, JJ, I can’t concentrate enough to read it. I so thought I was past this.”_

_She bit her lip. “Well, sure looks like symptoms of post-traumatic stress to me,” she said. “But… that can hardly be a surprise given what you’ve been through.” She considered the options. “You want to get out of here before anyone notices?”_

_“I’m not sure ‘unnoticed’ is possible,” Reid objected, and to be honest she couldn’t disagree having already shaken her head at a few non-verbal offers of help. “Plus, my sense of balance is off.”_

_“You’re dizzy?” she asked, surprised not to have noticed._

_He nodded. “And a headache.”_

_“Well, if you don’t want to leave, how about you just sit down here and let me show you some pictures of Henry? He’s about to start fourth grade.”_

_“Won’t it be obvious I can’t focus on them?”_

_“No one ever really looks at other people’s family photographs, Spence. It’s expected that you only pretend to like them.”_

_He laughed and clumsily found a seat. “Okay. Fine.”_

_She pulled over the nearest chair, took out her phone and brought up her photo album. “Umm, oh, okay, this is Henry out fishing with Will. And here’s Henry eating the fish he caught...”_

_She could tell Spencer was zoning out next to her, but she continued talking, even when his eyelids drooped. She’d actually begun to wonder whether he’d fallen asleep when he roused himself enough to whisper, “Hey, JJ.” She paused her explanation of Henry’s complex rules for the backyard obstacle course to look at him. “Thank you.” She smiled in confusion. “For worrying again,” he clarified._

_She leant across and briefly hugged her fragile friend. “You tell me when to stop,” she said, and scrolled to the next picture._

Spencer wriggled backwards into the doghouse reflecting that Tuesday had gone about as well as he could reasonably hope, given that he was currently chained to a tree, nursing a spectacular headache, and pretending to be a serial killer’s dog. He’d spent thirty minutes or so that morning cavorting around the yard chasing a small rubber ball. He’d succeeded in shredding the knees of his pants, revealing skin rubbed bright red underneath; his palms hadn’t fared much better. He’d also been surprisingly worn out – perhaps due to the ongoing lack of food – and had collapsed into an approximation of a lying position when she had granted him a brief interlude.

Despite – or perhaps because of - his obvious discomfort, she hadn’t given him long to recover. All too soon, a handkerchief had been thrust into his face, and he’d been commanded to find her shoe. He’d stared back quizzically, having seen her place the shoe moments before over by the kitchen window; indeed, it was still in clear view. _Over there_ he’d indicated, pointing, unable to keep the scathing look from his expression. _Sniff it out_ she’d instructed.

So he’d bent his face to the grass and pretended to follow a trail, looking in all the wrong places along the way - much as one might look for a toddler hiding in plain sight. Yes, it had been stupid and pointless, but it had also been easy and painless and he was prepared to take his blessings where they came.

When he’d finally ‘discovered’ the shoe, he’d been given a further ten minutes practicing the unsub’s commands to sit, come to heel, beg, and fetch before she’d abruptly appeared to tire of his antics and had gone inside, followed a while later by her once again timid partner making an appearance carrying a container of food.

Spencer hadn’t been required to secure himself to the tree this time, and he chose to see this as progress, despite having been feebly ordered to sit at the opposite end of the yard to where his food bowl resided. He had waited patiently while the man had scurried across the lawn to upend the container into the bowl. Once on his own again, he had lost no time in crawling back to see what he had been given. And whilst Spaghetti Bolognese had doubtless been chosen to amuse the unseen watchers of his battle to eat it no-handed, it had been both nourishing and surprisingly tasty. Following that up with a wetted t-shirt rubdown and the tiresome journey up and down the yard to lap up enough water had taken him another few hours. He’d heard a car departing while he was doing so, and wondered whether perhaps one of them was going to work.

And for the rest of the day, he’d tried to pin down his victimology, searching his eidetic memory for interactions that had seemed ‘off’. He’d thought through case files, his mother’s support circle, his research network, his neighbors, work acquaintances, bus drivers, and baristas; through librarians, Beltway Clean Cops, and hotel receptionists. Through prison guards and inmates, school bullies and teachers. Thousands and thousands of faces, and yet as night fell he still had no idea what he had in common with Juana and all the others. And he didn’t know where his path had previously crossed with the unsubs’.

But he was fed, hydrated, had no new injuries, and - it being Tuesday evening - he was now two days overdue at work. His team would be looking for him.

So, yes, today had gone about as well as he could reasonably hope, given that he was chained to a tree pretending to be a serial killer’s dog.


	7. Chapter 7

Goodnight, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.  
~ William Goldman, The Princess Bride

* * *

Garcia joined them downtown for their Monday evening briefing, laptop in hand. The CCTV team was still tracing the woman’s car through endless suburban streets, but progress was slowing as CCTV coverage became sparser. Emily suspected the unsub knew exactly how to throw off this line of enquiry so she wanted Penelope looking at the better lead.

Which was the phone list. In the last six months, Reid had missed 23 calls, Garcia told them. 20 of those had gone to voicemail. JJ had left 6 messages. Morgan 2. “So, fearless crime fighters,” she concluded, “we have twelve numbers left. Feed me.”

“Take out any calls from overseas or more than one state over,” Simmons said. “All the victims are locals, and they were all observed before being snatched.”

Keys clicked and the list shrank a little. “Nine numbers. Next.”

Silence.

“Okay,” Emily sighed when it was clear that was all. “Nine numbers. It could be worse. Rossi, Simmons: find out who listened to Reid’s message and what they made of it. JJ and Alvez, I’d like you to do a press conference to go out on Monday’s evening news; get the message across to the unsub that Reid is innocent. If you can hold up a picture of him cuddling a cute kitten or whatever, so much the better.”

“And me?” Dr Lewis asked.

“We’re going back over the profile,” Emily replied. “I can’t shake the feeling we’re missing something.”

 

_Alvez knelt on his porch and rubbed Roxy roughly behind her ears, giving Reid time to approach, knowing that the agent had been wary around dogs since his return. His pet didn’t help matters much by barking at his skittish colleague. “You should join us for a run sometime,” Luke invited with a smile._

_“Uh, sure,” Reid replied distractedly, meaning the exact opposite. He kept his gaze fixed on the dog as he said, “There’s a case.”_

_“Okay.” He wondered why Reid had come in person to tell him. It would have been quicker and more convenient to ring._

_Reid seemed to sense his question. “I just need a lift in,” he explained. “I was here. In the area...” but he tailed off and gave Luke an inscrutable look._

_Never lie to a profiler, Luke thought. He put Roxy’s collar on. “Here,” he told Reid, handing over the lead and stepping back. “Could you walk her to number 60? Mrs Robins takes her in when I’m away. I’ll be ready in five.” He shut the door on Reid’s startled face, and swallowed his misgivings._

_But after a few moments, he heard Reid say, “Uh, let’s go, girl,” and their foot- and paw steps moved off. Alvez relaxed minutely and hurried off to gather his things and shut down the house._

_Reid stared out the window most of the drive to Quantico, idly rubbing his right hand. Luke let the silence build, hoping his colleague might feel compelled to fill the quiet. Preferably by admitting he’d been in the area because he was battling with himself over dropping in to see Luke and his dog. Unfortunately, when Reid eventually cleared his throat to talk, they were only a couple of minutes out. Luke considered for a moment then took a surreptitious wrong turn hoping Emily would forgive the delay._

_“I never fought her,” whispered Reid, apropos of nothing. “I’m not sure how I feel about that now.”_

_Whoa. Luke looked across at his friend. Reid was still looking out of the window, but what he was seeing was anyone’s guess. He hadn’t noticed the wrong turn, nor did he react as they pulled in to the curb and stopped._

_“Were you too scared of the consequences?” Luke softly baited, hoping to draw out the real reason._

_He sighed. “She never said what would happen if I fought her. So, no.” He tapped his fingers nervously against his thigh and Luke wondered if he should send Emily a text suggesting she start without them. “Psychopaths often seek to control and manipulate their victims,” Reid abruptly parroted. “They are incapable of emotional connections and see people merely as objects to be bent to their will. Psychopaths exhibit deceit and violence to coerce others into achieving their own personal agenda. They are often highly intelligent. In dealing with them, behavioral analysts should use outcome-orientated reasoning focused on expressing the benefit to the psychopath.”_

_Luke recognized the words from the Academy textbook. “But if you talked, she’d gag you.”_

_“I was a mute pawn,” agreed Reid, then added after a moment’s reflection, “Actually, not quite true. But it turned out she didn’t understand the finer nuances of ‘woof’.”_

_Luke briefly grinned at the sarcastic turn of phrase, relieved Reid was able to lighten the mood. “So, if you couldn’t dissuade the unsub from her agenda...” he prompted._

_“...I could either follow her rules or suffer her punishments.” Reid took a deep breath. “Her threats were out of proportion to the difficulty of what she was asking.”_

_“She was going to force you to do her bidding, so you instead chose to do so,” Luke summarized._

_“Yeah.” A long sigh._

_“But now you’re thinking perhaps in a fight you might have won.”_

_Reid froze for long moments before his shaking hands scrabbled for the door handle. “Right,” he croaked. “Perhaps.” He couldn’t seem to open the door, and began banging against it in frustration. “Goddammit!”_

_Luke leant across and gently put his hand over Reid’s, guided it to the release mechanism and helped him operate it. Spencer tumbled out onto the sidewalk and knelt gasping breaths. Luke, thankful he wasn’t going to need to chase down his colleague through backstreets, exited the car in a more graceful fashion and went around to sit next to him._

_“S- sorry,” Reid eventually managed when his breathing was back under control._

_“Nothing to apologize for,” Luke said lightly._

_“To- took me by surprise.”_

_“Yeah. I realize. Flashback?”_

_Reid shrugged a non-committal answer. “I’d have had to, to fight to kill rather than incapacitate, I think.” It took Luke a moment to realize they were back to talking about fighting the unsub. “She wouldn’t have carried the padlock key on her so I’d have needed a- a lot of time to get free. And when it had escalated to the point where maybe I needed to do that, I was... she’d tied me up more.”_

_“You’re forgetting something,” Luke said. Haunted eyes turned to him in question. “You walked out of there. You walked out of the hospital under a day later. And you’ve walked back into work within a week.” The mention of work reminded him of the case briefing before he consciously put it out of his mind. “The other victims didn’t have your brains, Reid. That’s what saved you. You understood what you had to do, and you had the guts to, to accept the dehumanizing treatment to do it.” Reid’s face twisted up in an expression of self-loathing and Luke searched for words to reassure him. “Hey. Look at Elliot. He had the physique to win a fight - but against two determined unsubs, he came off worse.”_

_“He made fifteen tally marks.”_

_“He was mentally and physically tortured over weeks, Reid. No way was he able to put up a fight by the end. Trust me, they had him groveling on the ground just like you.” Spencer flinched at his ugly words, but his expression was thoughtful rather than desolate. “Unlike you, he was out of options. You want my opinion?” A hesitant nod. “I reckon she expected you to fight, and would have planned for it. Perhaps the male unsub was hiding out of sight, perhaps she was skilled in unarmed combat, perhaps something else.”_

_“She carried a concealed knife; I never found out exactly where because she only took it out when my eyes were closed.”_

_“There you go then: there was no way she was going to risk her ass anywhere near a jailbird like you without being sure you couldn’t best her. She just failed to take account of the fact that your fists aren’t the way you win fights.”_

_“Gideon once told me, ‘The deadliest weapon we have is a thorough and accurate profile’,” Reid murmured._

_Luke accepted the truth in this, and levered himself up off the sidewalk. “C’mon. Up and at ‘em. Briefing to get to.”_

_Reid flushed. “Oh, yeah. About that.” Seeing Luke’s non-comprehending expression, he sought to add further explanation. “I told your neighbor you’d be back in a few hours.”_

_Of all the... “There’s no case?” Luke clarified. “This was all just to...?” How had he not realized? Too busy catching Reid’s lie about why he’d been in the area he guessed. He grinned and mussed Spencer’s hair. “Cheeky, kid. I like it.”_

 

The TV in the house was on for the Monday evening press conference, JJ’s persuasive voice explaining that an undercover FBI agent had been mistaken for an animal abuser, but that really the agent in question _adored_ animals. If he was released, no punitive law enforcement action would be taken. She even had a picture of a smiling Reid cuddling two adorable puppies, courtesy of Garcia’s superior photoshopping skills. It was a brilliant performance, and no one watching it could fail to believe in the cute agent’s innocence.

The TV in the house was on, but no one was sat in front of it. Another room was seeing all the action that night.

 

“There’s something bugging me about this,” Emily said, holding out for Tara’s perusal the image of Elliot’s body tied to a tree, his hands caught inside the noose. “They get him – alive – to the middle of nowhere, they stab him and wait for him to die… then what? They pose him as if he’s finally trying to escape? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps it was about reaching an afterlife. Kneeling in supplication and pulling against the bindings keeping him here. Except don’t say it: there’s no other religious embellishment at the dump site.”

“Yeah. This has been about animals so far, not religion. I- oh my god.” Emily and Tara exchanged an appalled glance. They looked back at the picture afresh. Yes, Elliot was kneeling in a begging pose, but rather than his hands being positioned inside the rope around his neck to pull against it, they were being held up in place to mimic paws.

 

Sleep eluded Spencer on Tuesday night, although at around two in the morning he stopped scrolling through memories and instead turned to more practical considerations. Firstly, he needed to acknowledge to himself that his unwavering obedience had run its course: the female unsub was frustrated and to satisfy her sadism would inevitably set an impossible demand soon to see him forced into compliance. And second, to be sure of getting close to the submissive partner to try once again to establish a rapport, he was going to have to be in need of medical attention. Which meant a beating, or more knife cuts, or a branding. And, frankly, none of those appealed.

Spencer shifted so he was on his back, staring up through unseen branches at the glimpses of stars overhead, legs bent up inside the kennel. Really right now he needed to formulate an escape plan.

Freedom was currently prevented by the tree (an estimated 4.7 days continuous uninterrupted effort to dig out by hand), his neck (which needed to stay attached, thank you very much), the collar (too risky to attempt to remove), and the steel chain (welded links, so _breakable_ if he could apply enough tension).

Spencer ran the engineering problem through. He had a secure anchor point in the tree, and the loop around it fastened with a padlock was an obvious section to attack. What he _needed_ was a pole to put between the loop of the chain and the trunk so that when he twisted it, the chain would twist around the pole too. Eventually either his pole would shatter or the stretch applied to the steel would make the links pull apart at their weakest point. Simple, in theory - although Spencer had his doubts he’d be able to actually apply sufficient leverage on the pole to twist it against the steel links. Still, given a sturdy pole, he’d lose nothing by trying.

A light breeze rustled the tree. Spencer blinked. Okay, he needed to procure a sturdy _branch_.

He wriggled himself free of the doghouse and peered myopically upwards in the starlight. The lower branches were thick and gnarled whereas the upper ones were all but invisible, so he reached up, put a foot to the lowest branch and swung himself into the foliage.

Here, amidst the leaves, it smelled of his youth before intellect and his mother’s health had steered his childhood down a different path. Spencer breathed deeply and smiled at the sense of carefree adventure the scent gave him. Then he selected a branch, anchored himself securely against the trunk, and began to kick strongly at his target, his accompaniment a soft percussion of rustling leaves and falling apples.

It took ages before a bowing of the wood convinced him he was making progress; he hadn’t dared try a different angle for fear of slipping and accidentally hanging himself. Still, once the bowing started, the weight of the leaves and fruit hastened the inevitable. A few more kicks, and then with an alarmingly loud crack, the wood split and the branch descended to land with a loud thump on top of his doghouse, shattering much of its roof, front and one side with yet more noise.

Spencer froze in horrified astonishment, looking down at the destruction he had wrought. Partially anchored in the kennel, the branch was still vibrating with rebounds, an apple bobbing precariously on its stalk. Hypnotized by the movement, he watched until it fell with perfect precision into his dog bowl.

He snapped back into the moment. Slithered out the tree.

Inside the house, a light had come on.


	8. Chapter 8

The lights go out and I can’t be saved / Tides that I tried to swim against /  
Have brought me down upon my knees / Oh I beg, I beg and plead

~ Clocks, Coldplay

* * *

 

> “The dog joke in his phone message?” the owner of Scholastic Books asked. “I can’t say I found it odd; you get all sorts of customers here.”
> 
> “My son thought it was the funniest thing ever when I told him that night,” said the drugstore lady. “But then again, he is only 5.”
> 
> Next was Reid’s unamused proprietor. “His message seemed inappropriate for a federal agent, but it’s hardly my place to judge.”
> 
> The call center. “I’d have to look back through our records to see who placed the call. Is this really necessary?”
> 
> The librarian. “I thought at first I’d dialed the wrong number; it didn’t sound like Spencer at all. But I left a message, and the next day he dropped by good as gold to collect the book.”
> 
> The wrong number. “Who the hell is Doctor Spencer Reid? No, I don’t like dogs. What’s this about?”
> 
> HR. “Reid has twice been informed by email that his message was unprofessional and required amendment. But the next stage in the disciplinary process is escalation to his line manager and not abduction - as you are well aware, SSA Rossi.”
> 
> The ambulance-chaser. “I’m just after the client, y’know? Dude had a rock-solid case against the State for false imprisonment. It’s not like I can afford to be picky over stupid messages.”
> 
> One of his students. “It sounded like a mate had recorded it for him. I thought it was kinda cool... Doctor Reid: nerdy professor by day, crime fighting comedian by night.”

Rossi snagged a lunchtime sandwich from the conference table. “Alvez and Simmons are off to the call center to, well-”

Emily finished scanning the notes he’d just handed her. “Put a rocket up their arse?” she suggested.

Rossi gave her a small smile. “Something like that.”

 

There was no time, Spencer knew. He could already hear the back-door opening. No time to get underneath the branch and pretend it had somehow become detached from a healthy tree on its own.

No time to effect his escape plan.

The female unsub was already walking across the yard to him, taking in the scene by the light spilling from the house.

No time to even get on his hands and knees before she saw him standing, although he tried.

Just no time.

“Oh, Crash,” she scolded, but it was clear she was thrilled. “Bad doggie.” She pivoted and addressed her partner who had slunk into the yard behind her. “Restraints _and_ cage.” She turned back round, took a hold on his collar, and dragged him into the center of the yard. “Lesson time for you.” They waited silently until the man reappeared with an alarmingly small wire cage and a carryall. Spencer swallowed.

The items were set down on the grass next to him. The bag was unzipped and a tie extracted. His left ankle was gripped and he felt material wrap around over his sock, then his ankles were bought together and the procedure was repeated on his right. He began to shake with reaction. The unsub noticed and stroked her hand up his side in a parody of a soothing caress. “Is Crash sorry? Does he want to beg?”

Oh god, anything to avoid this. He sat back on his heels, raised his hands and keened with all he had for clemency.

The unsub walked behind him and crouched down. “Rules were broken,” she whispered, and licked his ear. “You know what that means.” Which of course he did: psychopaths were incapable of mercy. A moment later he felt a pull at his waistband and he guessed she was passing the tie through one of his belt loops. “Lie back down,” he was ordered. He did so carefully, and sure enough found his ankles were pulled into the air behind him.

The man picked up the cage, unlocked it, and rested the open side on the ground by his knees. The woman pulled at his ankles, rocking him forward so the man could slip the cage further up his body. When the woman released him, his knees thumped against its back edge.

“Get on all fours,” she ordered next.

Spencer pushed upwards, but it wasn’t easy to cram himself into the space. His upper body stuck out when he was done, but with as much compassion as a rock the unsub pushed his head down until only the chain trailed outside, and locked the cage closed on him anyway.

Bent double, Spencer’s shoulders immediately began to protest at the strain they were under pressed hard against wire mesh. He didn’t doubt that before too long it would be agony. He shifted, but only succeeded in grinding his knees and back against unforgiving metal. Breathing was awkward with his head upside down, taking additional effort, and he fought not to hyperventilate.

“Usually one night in that is enough,” she taunted him. “But it looks like you’ve left yourself out of options.” A short while later he heard the back-door slam, and a moment after that again the house lights turned off, plunging him into darkness.

 


	9. Chapter 9

You can’t stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.  
~ Winnie-the-Pooh, A A Milne

* * *

_“Not that it isn’t wonderful to have you intrude on my lair, sunshine, but didn’t the Bureau clear you?” Garcia asked, rescuing her nick-knacks from Reid’s erratic orbit._

_“Prentiss uncleared me,” he replied._

_“Oooh, bad luck,” she commiserated, meaning for both of them, albeit he didn’t need to know that._

_He paced back and forth a few more times, and Garcia chewed her lip wondering how to steer the conversation onto necessary but admittedly dangerous territory. Eventually she decided to just plunge in. “Derek says ‘hi’,” she said, at the same moment that Reid gulped out, “Have you talked to Morgan yet?”_

_Their eyes met. Garcia winced at the desolation in her friend’s expression. “You go first,” she offered._

_“I don’t think he knows,” Reid said. “He hasn’t been in touch.”_

_“Oh, honey.” And she stepped forward to engulf him in a hug. “He knows.”_

_Reid broke free after a few seconds. “Sorry,” he said, his arms flopping awkwardly. Garcia tutted away his embarrassed rejection, reaching behind him to find a chair and all but ramming his legs with it to seat him._

_“So,” she began, seating herself to face him. “Given that we appreciate this has the potential to be an awkward reunion, we – and by ‘we’ I should say Emily - have taken matters into–” She was interrupted by the phone ringing. “One moment.” She swung round, pounded her pen into the phone button, and greeted her caller. “Office of the Supreme Being Penelope Garcia; how may I assist your quest?”_

_“Baby Girl!” came a familiar voice over the speaker. Garcia gasped. “And how is my gorgeous goddess today?”_

_“Derek,” Garcia tried to interject. “This isn’t a good-”_

_“Because I have some news for you, woman. You will be seeing yours truly at Rossi’s surprise party.” He stopped, and after a moment of silence at both ends of the line added, “Ah, is… is Reid with you?”_

_Penelope seemed to have lost the ability to breathe, so it was Reid who answered, his voice a tiny squeak. “Hey.”_

_“Reid.” There was a weight of anguish behind the word. Reid bowed his head and compulsively rubbed his hand. “Kid,” Morgan said eventually, and his voice was gentle. “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t begin to cover it, but, well…”_

_“I know.”_

_“Tomorrow, okay, we’ll talk.”_

_“Yeah. Apparently so.”_

_“Okay. See you then. And you too, Penelope.” There was a click as the line disconnected._

_Garcia fell back into her seat, hand over her thumping heart. “Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod.” She looked back at Reid. “You’ll have to pretend to be surprised.”_

_Reid looked faintly befuddled. “That was all you took from that conversation?”_

_“What? No.” She rallied. “No, of course not. I was moved to tears by the emotional healing you two achieved during your brief exchange.”_

_Reid wrinkled his nose at her. “It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend,” he quoted._

_“Umm… Harry Potter?”_

_“No. William Blake, 19 th century English poet. The point being…”_

_“Yes?” Garcia prompted when he didn’t continue._

_“There’s a party at Rossi’s tomorrow?”_

_Garcia raised her eyebrows. “You do know you’ve completely changed the subject, right?” Since Reid looked not in the least contrite, she continued. “Yes, genius, there’s a party for you tomorrow at Rossi’s. Derek was asked to come by Emily. And I have some serious sucking up to do.” At Reid’s questioning expression, she elaborated, “Okay, look, I was worried about you; I went a bit mama bear on his case and I think I need to apologise. It’s not like he meant for all this to happen.”_

_“No, I guess not.” Reid’s gaze became preoccupied and he fell silent for so long that Garcia returned to work. But eventually he roused himself. “I guess this is a good thing,” he mused. “After all, a wise old man once said, ‘Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it’.” He smiled across at Garcia. “Dumbledore.”_

 

The team gathered at 3pm on Tuesday, Alvez and Simmons joining by phone from the call center. “We have a name,” Simmons announced without preamble. “Daniel Poolei. Was let go last month for persistent lateness, rudeness to customers, inability to comply with procedures, inappropriate behavior towards colleagues... his manager basically couldn’t wait to see the back of him. He was still on his probationary period, so the company cut ties as fast as possible.”

“Tell me there’s an address,” Emily said.

“There’s an address,” Matt confirmed with grim satisfaction. “We’re sending it to you now.”

Even before electronic _pings_ heralded their glad tidings, the team was scraping their chairs back to leave and exchanging glances which, while not strictly triumphant, were certainly hopeful. Garcia, iPad in hand, gabbled the description of the building they would find - a run-down tenement scheduled for demolition once the last remaining residents were evicted - as they exited the room. “Bring him back safe,” she implored their retreating backs, and JJ turned briefly to smile at her and offer a thumbs up.

 

For long, terrifying minutes after being pulled from the cage on Wednesday morning, Reid couldn’t move his limbs at all. He lay curled on his side, looking across to the same view of his torn and crumpled pants that he’d had since dawn, feeling damp grass and solid chain against his cheek. His arms rested where the unsub had dropped them: one stretched out over his head and the other dangling behind his back. Dew slowly soaked through his clothes, chilling him just as effectively as the fear coursing through him. His breath sounded harsh and panicked to his ears, so he closed his eyes and wrestled with himself to get it under control.

“Eyes open, Crash,” the unsub admonished. He flicked them open wide. Fingers pulled down the neckline of his t-shirt at his back, and he felt a sharp prick on his upper shoulder blade followed by a languid drag on his skin and a maddening, itchy trickle of blood. “One,” she crooned, and he could imagine her hoping there’d be more.

Agonizing pins and needles kicked in shortly thereafter, and he gulped his breaths in an effort to control the pain. Muscles in his neck twitched and jumped unbidden. Light fingers traced their path, and a hum of satisfaction came from above. His ankles instinctively kicked out against their tie and he winced as the binding tightened. The fingers caressing his neck abruptly curled around his collar and hauled upwards.

“Time for walkies, Crash,” she said. “You’ve had long enough.”

He really hadn’t. His arms were still jelly beneath him. When she set him in a crawling pose and let go, he tried to take his own weight but instead collapsed face first in a heap on the grass. The unsub tsked with impatience and toppled him onto his side again with a heeled shoe in his side. “Useless dog,” she said, and kicked him in the ribs.

On a scale of kicks he had known, it was about a Hotch, Reid thought, his uncoordinated limbs making a good impression of a rag doll while she lined up for another go. This one caught him in the stomach making his breath whoosh out of him. But at last, at _last_ , he felt his body begin to obey his commands, and he used the momentum from the kick to roll into a weak protective huddle.

“This one isn’t going to last a week,” the female said in a disgusted tone.

“You- you think it’s time?” came the stuttering reply, sending Spencer’s mind into a frantic spin about what _that_ could mean.

The unsub put her head to one side and considered him. “One last chance, Crash,” she warned. “Get up, or you won’t need to worry about the cage again.”

That was less ambiguous. And it was clear he really, really needed to get up. Heart pounding, he uncurled and twisted his chest to the ground. Ignoring his protesting shoulders in order to get his elbows underneath himself, he pushed upwards onto wobbling arms. His legs were harder to elevate as his tied ankles unbalanced him, but he eventually managed with widely spaced knees. He could do nothing about raising his head so it hung down between his shoulders, giving him an upside-down view of the yard. Since the unsub was stroking his back again, he supposed that wasn’t an issue, to her at least.

“Crawl round the yard, Crash,” she ordered.

How he managed it, he couldn’t say; he fell more than once, and his progress was pitifully slow. She quickly left him to it, but since the male unsub remained in the yard with him, Spencer continued until finally, _finally_ , he heard the man say, “S- s- sit.”

Spencer got as close to a sit as he could with his ankles tied together. The exercise had warmed his muscles somewhat, and he found he was now able to raise his head to meet the man’s gaze. “This is wrong,” Spencer was desperate enough to plead as the man approached, first aid kit in hand. “You’ve got to know that.”

“No- no talking, Crash.” The man wavered to a stop.

“My name is Spencer Reid. I’m an FBI agent. Please. _Please_. She’s going to kill me.”

“N- no, I-, I’ll do that.”

Spencer was shocked to silence for a moment, and the man took the opportunity to close the remaining distance to see to the wound across his shoulders. As fingers moved his hair out the way, Spencer ventured, “I don’t understand. Why are you going to kill me?”

A dab of antiseptic, and the man stood back up; the wound wasn’t too bad this time. “My- my reward. For p- picking you.”

Spencer swallowed. “If you picked me, why do you want me dead?”

“Because yuh, you hurt the animals, Crash,” the man’s voice trembled, volume rising as the nonsensical words spilled out. “Just like the others. So you have to be punished. And when it’s over, she lets me kill you.”

Oh god. A sexually sadistic psychopath and an anger-retaliatory sociopath. These two were a match made in hell, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why they were fixated on him. _Drive a wedge between them_ , the profile dictated. He heard the sound of the back-door opening, and realized he needed to be fast: she’d heard the voices. “She knows I didn’t hurt any animals,” Spencer gambled. “She’s lying to you. _Ask_ her.”

The woman rounded the side of the house, gag already dangling from one hand; Spencer hastily dropped his eyes. Only to gasp a moment later as his hair was seized and his head wrenched back. “You’re the one lying, Spencer Reid,” the man spat in his face. “I heard you hurt him myself.”

The woman sashayed over. The man let go of Spencer’s hair as she approached and Spencer let his head drop back down, mind reeling over the baseless accusation. What the hell was going on here?

“ _Spencer Reid_?” the woman asked. “Has Crash forgotten himself?” Her partner nodded, and from the corner of his eye, Spencer saw her tilt the man’s face towards her and plant her lips on his. “We’ve not had to do a brand for a while,” she breathed around the kiss. “How very exciting.”


	10. Chapter 10

Everybody, sooner or later, sits down to a banquet of consequences  
~ Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

In its heyday, the tenement had housed local assembly line workers, but the relative affluence had vanished along with the nearby defense industries many decades ago. The building was now crumbling and rotting away while the landowner waited for gentrification to arrive. Three families eked out an existence surrounded by damp and petty crime.

That Tuesday afternoon, the BAU was only interested in the occupants of one of the first-floor flats, something they made clear by knocking once then busting the front door down, shouts of “FBI” on their lips. Almost immediately, a cacophony of barking and howling erupted along with a scrabbling of claws against a closed internal door.

“They won’t hurt you,” a woman’s voice sneered and, when JJ spun to point her weapon, she was mortified to realize the woman was addressing her. “But I might. I’ve still got 32 days left on your stinking notice.”

“We’re not here about your eviction notice, Ms Poolei,” Emily said, realizing quicker than JJ what the woman was talking about. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

The woman swung narrowed eyes at the team leader. “Search...? I ain’t got nothing left.”

They searched anyway, while Matt and Tara took the woman in to be questioned. There was no sign of Reid, but it was clear that Ms Poolei’s son did occasionally visit as there was recent post left out for him. Her dogs were in a pitiful state, signs of malnourishment clear on their thin, mangy frames, the room stinking. Luke called Animal Control for an assist.

Watching Ms Poolei stonewall in the interview later, Emily, Rossi and Luke conferred unseen behind the one-way glass. “If she treated her son the way she treats her dogs...” Rossi began.

“...then we have an upbringing full of abuse,” Emily finished. She held up her pointer finger. “Poor environment.”

“He can’t hold down a job - disorganisation.” Rossi held up two fingers.

Luke’s heart sank as he saw where this was going. “Three. He upset other workers and customers - poor social integration.” After a moment he added, “Plus four, he lied during Reid’s abduction - manipulation.”

“Dammit,” Emily said. “Just when you think it can’t get worse.” She took a few paces and rapped on the door for Matt and Tara to step out for a moment.

“Partnerships between psychopaths and sociopaths are extremely rare,” Tara cautioned when they had explained their theory. “Are you sure that’s what you want to go with here?”

“Find out if her son is prone to outbursts of intense anger,” Rossi suggested. “And how he reacts when challenged: does he blame others, fly off the handle? That could tell us if he’s a sociopath.”

Matt grimaced. “We can try,” he said, “but she’s not cooperating.”

Emily sighed and pulled out her phone. “Keep at it,” she said. “I’ll get Garcia on the case too.”

 

Spencer cooled his brand under a trickle of water from the outside faucet, mind determinedly focused elsewhere. His stomach was reacting unfavorably every time he thought too hard about the solder burn and, with the gag in, he needed to not throw up. As it happened, finding something else to think about was easy... his mind tumbled over and over as he baulked at the idea of spending Wednesday night in that tiny cage again. It was frightening contemplating the agonizing cramps and immobility in his future; creepy crawly, scratchy things moving about unseen - but occasionally felt - in the utter blackness; the exhausting battle to breathe enough oxygen to avoid hypoxia - and _oh god_ he would be gagged this time.

‘At night, you will sleep in the kennel, or it will be replaced with a cage’ she had said. Rule and punishment; choice and consequence. Like the other Rules, this one was both simple and degrading, and the obvious action to take once the risk was analyzed and the indignity overcome. But take away the doghouse, in effect remove the choice she had gifted him - his illusion of autonomy here - and he was left only with enduring her horrible consequence. Tonight, when they forced him into that cage, she’d chip away a little of his soul; his path to an ugly and painful death would become just that little bit clearer.

For the first time, he truly felt he was becoming her victim.

He’d been avoiding it, but it was time. When he’d taken the worst of the heat out of the burn, he crawled to the back of the yard, collecting a sharp piece of gravel along the way. Pushing through the hedge, he came across their names again. So many more than the three that had been found. He traced a finger over each in turn. Stabbed to death and dumped for scavengers to tear apart.

When it was his turn, was anyone going to find him?

‘Spencer Reid’ he scratched slowly under Elliot’s entry, the brand on his right hand begging to differ. ‘2018’. Then he etched his five tallies underneath.


	11. Chapter 11

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances  
~ Viktor E Frankl

* * *

Spencer lay on the lawn, shaded by the apple tree, watching as nature buzzed and crawled above him. Beyond the fence a red-tailed hawk hovered effortlessly over the empty field, occasionally plummeting earthwards only to swoop upwards a short while later - until finally it emerged with a small field mouse gripped in its claws. Once the bird had flapped away, he took to looking higher still at the jet trails marking that modern life continued oblivious of his situation. Clouds bubbled up far to the west; Spencer thought perhaps the Blue Ridge Mountains might lie in that direction, but couldn’t be sure.

There was no discernible breeze in the high humidity to ruffle his stubble and lanky hair. Sweat pooled on his throat and itched under his collar. Resting his palms on his upright knees, he winced at the red heat radiating from the overworked joints. His brand, too, was a little warm to the touch. The bandage around his arm had begun to work loose, so Spencer unwound it, curious as to what he would find underneath. The slash was long and straight and healing, consistent with the wounds in the autopsy photographs he had seen. He re-wrapped the bandage and eventually closed his eyes, letting dappled sunlight soothe his worn-out body to peace.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun had shifted and the day had become hotter still. He found himself contemplating the scattered remains of the doghouse, thinking how incongruous the shattered plastic was in this tranquil, neglected yard; long after moss had swallowed the gravel, weeds had choked the flower beds, wind had felled the fences, and age had crippled the apple tree, the garish material would still be providing shelter for woodlice and spiders.

And then he saw a branch half-obscured amid the detritus, and jerked himself out of his reverie.

Somehow it was still there, intact. He supposed the unsubs had been so busy punishing him for bringing the branch down, they’d never stopped to consider why he might have wanted to in the first place.

… and in doing so, they had left him a means to attempt an escape.

 

Ms Poolei was still failing to cooperate on Wednesday morning. By then, Garcia had uncovered a trail of aggression from her son, ranging from juvenile arson to more recent police cautions for threatening behavior to members of the public. She had also pulled his haphazard credit history; unpaid store cards, defaulted rent and repossessed goods left a grubby trail.

“How’s he surviving?” JJ wondered. “He’s not able to hold down a job. Is the female unsub supporting them both?”

Rossi shrugged. “She could be. Psychopaths have been known to hold high management roles - the combination of ruthlessness, intelligence and obsessive organizational skills, I guess.”

“She can definitely blend in,” Emily agreed. “No one questioned her authority when she snatched Reid.”

“And that’s what I don’t understand about how Poolei landed his call center job,” said Tara. “He’s incapable of passing as normal. No recruiter would pick him.”

“He got it through a work placement scheme,” Alvez replied. Beside him, Simmons pulled out his notes while Luke continued his update from memory. “The scheme supports long term unemployed back to work. Apparently, it wasn’t uncommon to have issues, but Poolei was by far the worst the center had seen.”

“Here,” Simmons interjected, finding the right place, “Washington Workforce Placement.”

“Garcia?” Emily requested over the key presses which could already be heard.

“Washington Workforce Placement...” introduced Garcia, “Set up in 2005. Moderately high proportion of those placed go on to find employment.” More clicking, then a triumphant exclamation. “Aaaand Daniel Poolei was sponsored by an Imogen Miller, who - interestingly enough given mio Italiano’s recent speculation - just so happens to be the CEO.”

That was significant, Emily could sense it. “Good work, Garcia,” she said. “Matt, Tara, try that name on mom and see if she reacts. Rossi, Luke, JJ, head for the company and do some poking around. Garcia, keep digging.”

“It shall be so, my Liege. Tech genius out.”

 

_Spencer slept, and found himself standing in a cell, dressed in an orange prisoner jumpsuit. A buzz sounded and with a click the bars slid away. He stepped forward into the corridor. The chains around his wrists, waist and ankles jangled._

_“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”_

_The sound echoed, and even the walls mocked him: INMATES MUST BE SILENT._

_Right, of course. He took another step._

_The chain around his neck pulled taut, and he choked to a stop._

_“The problem here,” said Cat Adams, standing just off to his right, “Is that you need to be on all fours, Spencey. Just like the dog you are.”_

_He turned his head to face her, aghast at her presence. Drinking in his discomfort, she stuck fingers behind her head, curling them to imitate ears, and mouthed a gleeful ‘woof’._

_He retreated into his cell as she stalked closer, only to recoil as he backed into something sharp. A blade trailed a path down from his left shoulder blade. “You forgot to keep your eyes open, Crash,” said the female unsub, her breath gliding across his neck. “You know the rules.”_

_“But my eyes ARE open!” he protested, arching his back in vain to escape the knife. “It's you not playing by the rules!”_

_A crackle sounded; the three of them raised their eyes to the grey loudspeaker, secured high up on the wall. “You’re a liar, Inmate Reid,” the PA system announced. “You are hereby sentenced to five years. In a cage.”_

_The buzzer sounded again; Cat and the female unsub slipped out before the bars slid shut._

_There was one insane moment of relief, with them on one side and him on the other. Then his cell began to shrink. He swallowed hard and stepped back again, away from the encroaching bars. His head knocked against the ceiling so he first ducked his shoulders then crouched to escape its descent._

_The female unsub rapped the front bars to get his attention. “There’s a plea bargain on the table,” she offered._

_“A single s-stab wound to your heart.” The male unsub, standing to her left, flourished a long, serrated knife._

_“There’d be a worthy send-off: an unmarked tree to hide your bones forever.”_

_“Well, that’s a good deal,” said Cat. “You should take it.”_

_“But I’m innocent,” he sobbed. “This isn’t fair.”_

_“I know!” Cat gloated. “That just makes it more delicious.” And she reached through the bars to push down on his shoulder, so that his face ended up in the dog bowl at his knees._

_He tried but couldn’t raise his head. He felt the ceiling at his back and began to struggle in earnest but his legs wouldn’t straighten. “No!”_

_“Reid,” said Rossi._

_“It’s dirty on the floor,” said the PA. “All inmates must strip and shower.”_

_“Oh, I have a much better idea,” said the female unsub, and turned a brutally cold jet of water on him. He gasped and jerked at the shock of it._

_“Jesus, kid. Wake up.”_

_“A- at least let me k- kill him first,” complained the male._

_Something touched his chest; he screamed and screamed and screamed and finally woke._

_Panting as if he’d run a marathon, throat hoarse, heart thumping, his head was jammed up against the headboard. The bedding was tangled around his feet, mattress sliding off the bed. There were ice chips on his chest, and he stared dumbly at them, unable to account for them being there._

_“Sorry kiddo. I shouldn’t have tried to touch you. You jostled a drink of iced water out of my hand.”_

_Spencer twisted awkwardly to face Rossi, absorbing the meaning of the words. After a while, he scooted a little down the bed to release his head. He closed his eyes to focus on getting his breathing under control, then instinctively flicked them open before a knife could be taken out. A moment later, he realised what he’d done and nearly gagged._

_Rossi, hovering nearby and doubtless translating every tic into an entirely accurate profile, gave him a sympathetic look. “Why don’t you take a few, huh? I’ll go grab a cloth now you’re more alert.”_

_Spencer flopped, gradually recovering, until Rossi returned with a bath towel and change of clothes. “Here you go, kid.” The older agent helped him sit up before handing the items over. “The spare guest room is made up.”_

_Reid nodded, and allowed himself to be assisted across to the other room. “Sorry,” he muttered as he sank onto the new bed._

_Rossi waved away his apology. “Don’t worry about it, kid. This won’t last. And I’ve plenty of room for you to stay while it does.”_

 

Ms Poolei’s reaction was dramatic. “That bitch!” she shrieked, half rising to her feet. “Killed one of my babies and tried to tell Daniel I done it. But I knew. And,” her eyes grew shifty, “You might want to look at what happened to _her_ baby.”

Simmons frowned, trying to make sense of her words. Garcia’s research meant he was already aware of baby Agatha Miller’s unexplained death over a decade ago, but the rest... “What do you mean, ‘one of your babies’?” he asked, then inspiration struck. “You can’t... you mean one of your dogs?”

“Found Bonnie strung up after she’d visited. Not that you lot were any help back then.” She sneered as Matt and Tara exchanged a meaning-laden glance. “Bit more interested now, are we?”

“What is Imogen’s relationship with your son, Ms Poolei?” Tara changed the subject, knowing that Emily would already be asking for the police report on Bonnie to be unearthed.

But the contempt stayed fixed on Ms Poolei’s face. “Like I’d tell you,” she jeered. “Who he screws is none of your damn business.”

Matt pushed back his chair and stood. Beside him, he heard Tara cough to suppress a laugh as their hostile witness unintentionally gave them their answer. “Thank you, Ms Poolei,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.” And he took great pleasure in keeping a straight face as she looked at him in surprise.

Emily met them as they walked out. “What a very unpleasant woman,” she commented.

Tara looked back at Ms Poolei who was making an obscene gesture at the one-way mirror. “I can’t help thinking there’s a chance that the victims are a substitute for the real target of his anger.”

It made depressing sense. Emily mentally added to the profile: vigilante murders carried out by a submissive male sociopath with mother issues and a dominant female psychopath.

Reid sure knew how to pick them.

“Well, Rossi has reported that Imogen’s not at work, but we’ve got a home address.” Emily said. “We’re meeting the others at Gainesville.”


	12. Chapter 12

Successful engineering is all about understanding how things break or fail ~ Professor Henry Petroski

* * *

Spencer considered how he needed to change his plan to take account of developments: with his feet tied up he now wouldn’t be able to reach high enough to twist the branch.

He grimaced, unzipped, and awkwardly wriggled his pants down to his ankles before unpicking the binding tie and redressing himself.

Next, the branch. He pulled it from the doghouse, stripped off the remaining twigs, dragged it to the tree and fed it up inside the loop of chain.

He glanced towards the quiet house. He had no idea what the punishment would be if they caught him doing this.

He reached out and turned the branch 180 degrees clockwise. The loop came taut and wedged the branch so tightly against a knothole in the bark he couldn’t twist it further.

Don’t panic.

Spencer rotated the branch back a half turn, moved it across a ways, and tried again. This time, the first 180 degrees took out the slack, another quarter turn and the chain clinked into proper tension. He put all his weight behind the next push, not quite managing 45 degrees further. By now, the chain was groaning... but the branch was making far more alarming sounds of distress: creaking, splitting, and quivering under his hands. He backed up a few degrees and thrust again.

Next thing he knew, he was face down on the ground, aware events had happened quicker than even his brain could process and ears ringing from what had sounded like a gun retort. He turned over and sat up. He saw the branch first, back over by the doghouse. Or rather, he realized as his scattered senses came back online, what was left of it. This second hit, the branch had demolished almost all the remaining structure.

And it still had chain wrapped round it.

His disbelieving eyes whipped back to the tree. The loop was gone.

That had been no gunshot. That had been metal sheering under stress. High speed chain had whistled past his ear.

His mouth might still be full of a gag strapped to his face. And his neck might still be attached to a collar, 20m of steel chain and a branch. But there was no doubt about it...

He was free.

 

> Avery and Whyte Metalworks Ltd are much obliged to the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation for the opportunity to examine Item 654KR-65 (20m chain, welded grade 30 proof, diameter 10mm) and Item 654KR-66 (padlock, keyed), and for the background information which informed our testing environment. Following extensive experimentation in laboratory conditions, we can with certainty say that the tensile strength of Item 654KR-65 was as declared in the manufacturer’s data sheets; it would thus not have been possible to exert sufficient direct tension to overcome this with a windlass handle made of wood from an apple tree*. Item 654KR-66 however was showing clear signs of water ingress and oxidation (rust). It is the opinion of our technicians that it had not been kept in accordance with the manufacturer’s guidance which clearly states ‘suitable for indoor use only’. At any rate, examination of the item in question shows that it was the padlock’s shank which sheered when your agent attempted to break the chain, and that it did so at a far lesser load than might otherwise have been expected had a padlock more suitable to outdoor conditions been used. The agent should consider himself extremely lucky to have made his escape in the circumstances.
> 
> * Catastrophic shattering of the wood repeatedly occurred at around the expected crushing strength of 41.6 MPa...

 

_Reid held out his hand and flapped it open and closed a few times, unmistakably signing ‘gimme’. A small smile played on his lips._

_“No way, Pretty Boy.”_

_Gimme again._

_“C’mon, kid. You gotta know I’ll change it the moment we go back to the party.”_

_Gimme. Gimme-gimme-gimme._

_Morgan sighed a put-upon sigh and dug out his cell. Placing it in Reid’s outstretched hand, he told the agent, “Just remember: you’ll be the one answering to Savannah for this.”_

_His friend snorted with amusement. After a moment they both looked at the cell lying idle in Reid’s palm. “You have no idea how to do this, do you?” Morgan asked. A sheepish look was his answer. Morgan incredulously shook his head, took the phone back, and swiped and clicked for a moment. “Here,” he said, moving to stand next to Reid, putting the phone up to his friend’s mouth. “When you hear the beep, start talking. Blink when you’re done. Okay?”_

_Reid nodded._

_Beep._

_“Hi,” Spencer said. “This is Derek Morgan’s phone. Please leave a message.”_

_Blink blink._

_Morgan stopped recording._

_Spencer smiled a happy smile._

_Morgan laughed. “Nice one, Reid,” he conceded. Years of oblivious one-upmanship was not so easily resolved it would seem; best he develop eyes in the back of his head. He took a breath and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Look, before we go back...”_

_Reid sighed. “Let me guess: you want to apologize?”_

_“Yes, genius, I want to apologize.”_

_“You do know I don’t hold you responsible, right?”_

_“Kid.” Morgan reached across a hand and clasped Spencer’s arm. Spencer looked down at it, then up into his friend’s troubled eyes. “I’ve watched you hurting, and known I had my part in it. You didn’t deserve what happened, and I’m sorry.”_

_Breaking eye contact to look down at his shoes, Reid muttered, “Apology accepted.”_

_Morgan stuck a finger under his chin and tilted it up. “Seriously, how are you doing, kid?”_

_“Don’t.” Reid gently batted away his finger. “I’m... I’m getting there. Emily’s going to let me back on a case in the next week or so.”_

_“That’s good.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You think you’ll be ready?”_

_Reid frowned. “Don’t you start too.”_

_Morgan grinned and held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay.”_

_A companionable silence fell, and they both watched their friends enjoying the party. “You’ll be fine, kid,” Morgan said after a while. “Don’t doubt yourself.” He clinked his bottle against Spencer’s glass. “Here’s to one of the strongest people I know. May he one day find happiness.”_

_“I am happy,” Spencer protested. “More or less.”_

_“Peace and contentment, then.”_

_“Another thing I’m not lacking. How about freedom from ignominy?”_

_“To blissful ignorance,” Morgan agreed._

_Reid laughed. “Fine. To blissful ignorance.”_

 

The two SUVs crested the last hill travelling fast, their red and blue strobes clearing the road ahead of lesser mortals. Not that there was much other traffic this far into rural Virginia. Simmons, at the wheel of the first car, blinked as his eyes played tricks on him, suggesting movement ahead in the untended valley.

“Did you see that?” JJ asked from beside him.

In the back, Rossi looked up from examining the library satellite images Garcia had supplied. “See what?” he asked.

“I thought for a moment I saw something down there, but it’s gone now.”

Simmons met Rossi’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Could you let Emily know we should stop and check something out? I saw something too.”

Rossi was mid-call when events overtook him. A figure clambered to its feet about 200 yards in front of the slowing cars and stood in the road waving them down. Even at that distance, they could see that the person was tall, long haired and male.

“Oh, thank god,” said JJ, pre-empting certitude.

And, of course, by the time they’d drawn to a stop they were sure. Reid staggered across to JJ’s door as she flung it open, and he hugged her just as hard as she hugged him.

“Tell me you’re alright,” she insisted, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Ugh,” he answered.

She drew back, puzzled, and took a good look at her friend. “Spence!” she exclaimed in distress and reached out a tentative hand first to the chains looped gunslinger-style around his upper body, and then up to his mouth. “Oh no.”

He reared his head back as her fingers approached his face. “Ugh.”

“Reid.” Emily broke into their reunion. “Nod or shake your head: do you need any immediate medical attention?” His eyes switched to look at her, and he decisively shook his head: no. “Are the unsubs anywhere in the vicinity?” A head shake, a short pause then an uncertain shrug.

“He’s not sure,” Rossi said, bizarrely stating the obvious. JJ looked across and realized he was talking to someone on his phone. Garcia, at a guess.

“We have a warrant for the house ahead,” Emily continued and got a thumbs up in return. She narrowed her eyes. “No, you are not coming in with us.”

Reid gave a huff of amusement through the gag and held his arms up in surrender. “I mean it Reid,” Emily said, not believing him for a second, before she turned back to her team. “Okay, people, let’s get down there. JJ, stay with Reid and get that stuff off him when we arrive.”

They piled back into the SUVs, the other team members first taking the time to greet their erstwhile missing colleague. JJ slid into the backseat of the second vehicle, and a moment later Reid plonked down next to her, the weight of the chains disrupting his habitual grace.

“Your mom’s okay, Spence,” JJ reassured. “They dropped her off almost immediately, and she’s back at your place with her usual carers.”

Spence had whipped his eyes round to her when she started speaking, and she watched as a gamut of emotions flicked across his bruised face: gratitude, relief and guilt, then worry and fear, before settling on resolve.

“Urg ah uh...” but he tailed off, aware that he was making no sense.

JJ rubbed his arm. “Tell me in a few minutes,” she suggested.

They transferred around to the tailgate on arrival. JJ saw that Reid made sure to position himself with a good view of the road, and drew Emily’s attention to it.

“You think they’re out of the house, Reid?” she asked sharply, getting a nod then a shrug in return. “Okay. Matt, stay with them just in case. Rossi, Tara - cover the back door.”

Spencer’s gaze fixed on the two agents making their way into the backyard; he continued to stare even after they’d gone out of sight. Eventually, JJ tapped her friend’s shoulder to get his attention. “Hey.” Troubled eyes wavered towards hers, then a blink and he was back with her. “What do you want off first, Spence?” Trembling fingers tapped the side of his mouth. “Okay,” she agreed, and wrapped her fingers around his in gentle reassurance. Then she firmly tilted his head, and deliberately ignored him as she worked out how to get the padlocked leather gag off. And, whilst his breathing speeded up when she protected his face and started to cut, the emotional distance helped them both keep their composure. The gag came loose quickly; Reid spat it out and worked his jaw.

“Thank you,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

JJ felt tears bubble, and busied herself getting him some water and antiseptic cream while he unwrapped himself from the chain. Once they’d sorted out the basic first aid which the sores on his mouth demanded, she turned her attention to the leather collar. It was an altogether more robust affair and she eventually decided to just fetch the bolt croppers and cut the chain from it.

“I wonder what’s keeping them.” Matt echoed her unspoken thoughts as she returned with the cutters in hand.

Reid hunched a little under her ministrations but said nothing. “Soon be done, Spence,” she reassured. She placed the cutters against a link near his neck and was preparing to cut when the team appeared from the backyard, grim-faced. Emily waved the others off and walked up. “Reid,” she said, surprisingly gently, handing him his credentials, “I have to ask: there are signs back there that they caged you.”

JJ gave a small wail of denial, but Spencer reluctantly nodded then added vehemently, “I’m fine. I’m _fine_.”

Emily reached out a hand to his shoulder as JJ at last got the chain off him. “I know you will be.” And she turned away as if to answer to the demands of the case.

Anger flashed across Reid’s face. “Goddammit. _No_!” he swore, propelling himself off his seat on the tailgate. “I’m fine _now_. I’m so done with being a victim.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that, Reid,” Emily replied without turning back, just as JJ said, “Oh _, Spence_.”

And then Matt called out a warning, and all the focus shifted to the approaching unsub.


	13. Chapter 13

Anyone can be a hero. You just have to have faith in yourself ~ Masi Oka

* * *

 

Reid took a pistol from the SUV's locker, and grabbed a vest and earpiece from the trunk. JJ, watching him fasten the vest over his ruined t-shirt, said nothing to object.

The SUVs had been parked out of sight of the track leading to the property, so the cyclist making his way slowly along the road didn’t spot the FBI’s presence until after he’d made the turn into the drive. As he took in the two SUVs waiting outside the house, he braked and clumsily dismounted, tugging earbuds from his ears.

“Daniel Poolei, keep your hands where we can see them,” Rossi ordered.

The unsub’s eyes went wide, and a knife was suddenly in his hands.

“You’ve n- no right to be here,” he said, and then caught sight of Reid and went rigid. “Wh- What have you told them, you w- worthless piece of shit?”

“He hasn’t had a chance to tell us anything yet, Daniel,” Alvez interrupted. “How about you come with me so we can set the record straight?”

The unsub laughed. “How stupid do you think I am?”

Emily muttered, “Good try, Alvez,” into her comm piece then whispered to Reid, “See if you can distract him from here while Simmons gets behind him.”

Facing down an unsub was an altogether different experience from the correct side of a pistol, protected by a Kevlar vest, a car door, and his team. “I know you won’t back down, Daniel,” Reid called across to the unsub. “You can’t. Do you want to know why?”

Denial and need flashed across Poolei’s face before he settled on arrogance. “You t- think you can tell me, huh?”

“That’s right,” Reid agreed equitably. “I’m not sure you know this but I’m a behavioral analyst with the FBI. I’ve spent the last few days building a profile based on everything I’ve seen you do, and all the evidence you left with the victims we found.” He stopped for a second and licked his lips. “The profile tells me about your behavior in any given set of circumstances. For example, you’re impulsive and you don’t stutter when you’re angry. That tells me that a different part of your brain is dominant when you’re irate, and it also suggests rage might be cathartic - healing - for you.”

Poolei was listening closely and hadn’t noticed that Simmons had backed out of sight. So far, so good. Reid took a breath and continued. “I’ve noticed that you struggle to take care of yourself, and your only steady adult relationship is emotionally dysfunctional. But you were caring towards Nancy, and to an extent you fed me and treated my injuries. It’d be my guess that you had an abusive upbringing, but that a pet helped you escape reality.”

The hand holding the knife out was lowering without the unsub being aware of it. Emily murmured her approval next to him.

“You told me it was my mother’s fault I was here - that she didn’t want me anymore. Daniel, my mom no longer knows who I am. She has Alzheimer’s, so she doesn’t have much of an opinion on wanting me, one way or the other.” He swallowed and whispered to Emily, “Can I get closer?”

“Okay,” Emily agreed. “But, Reid? Not too close.”

Reid brought his borrowed pistol up to shoulder height and walked confidently out from behind the car’s protection. A carefully judged distance away from Poolei, he stopped and lowered his weapon, ignoring the hissed “Reid!” which accompanied the action.

“You told me my mom had given me to you, and you implied there’d been sexual favors given in thanks, to taunt and manipulate me. Do you know the word for that?”

“Satisfied,” Poolei leered, and his knife hand dropped just a little further.

“Not quite.” Reid didn’t dare call the unsub a liar to his face. “There’s been a lot of work done in researching a condition called antisocial personality disorder. We know that deceitfulness and exploitative behavior are considered to be two of its traits. Surprisingly, the disorder is prevalent in about 3 adult males in every 100, so you’re far from alone in experiencing it. A common contributory factor is environmental: a lack of modelling of social norms during childhood. At a guess, your cognitive growth didn’t include learning empathy - the ability to see situations from another person’s perspective.”

“In position,” Simmons said over the comm. “Awaiting signal to proceed.”

“Yes, go,” Emily replied.

“You beat me unconscious when I pushed you into a rage, which tells me that you have an anger retaliatory personality. If I say the wrong thing, you’ll feel compelled to punish me... so I’m picking my words very carefully here.” Reid gave a nervous laugh. “You were the one who stabbed the others to death, and you told me you picked us because we deserved it. That’s the behavior of a vigilante.” Simmons was creeping up behind Poolei, but Reid kept his eyes fixed on the unsub.

“Taking those traits together, you have an overwhelming need to exact vengeance when you perceive wrong-doing, and you also probably think your actions make you one of the good guys. When you eventually stand in front of a judge, you’ll expect him to thank you and you won’t understand it when he doesn’t.”

“That s- still doesn’t explain why you think I w- won’t give myself up,” Poolei said, knife now down beside his leg.

“No, it doesn’t,” Reid agreed just as Simmons forcibly wrapped his arms around Poolei’s torso to immobilize him. Reid once more trained his gun so that his team could safely divest the unsub of the knife. “It’s the fact that you’re a sociopath that explains that.”

 

“Watch me,” Spencer had promised Cat Adams on the day he’d taken a return step over a scary line he’d never intended to cross in the first place. A line that involved poisoning inmates and getting away with it, even relishing the sensation of inflicting deserved suffering. Both he and Cat had known then that it wouldn’t be an easy promise to deliver. That maybe it would be impossible to go back to being the morally upstanding FBI agent serving with fidelity, bravery, and integrity.

Watch me indeed, Reid thought, and began to give the Miranda warning. “You have the right to remain silent,” he told Poolei, relieving JJ of her handcuffs and clicking them onto the unsub. He pulled Daniel to his feet and steered him towards the car, followed by Matt and Tara. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” They reached the SUV, and the unsub looked back at him.

For a moment Reid thought Poolei might say something, might even draw the parallel to his own abduction, but then the unsub leaned forward and snapped his teeth in Reid’s face. “Your friends made a mistake not catching her first,” he said, and gave a little taunting bark.

Reid flushed, but placed a firm hand on top of the unsub’s head and eased him down into the vehicle. “You have the right to speak to an attorney,” he continued. And he kept reciting until the very end - even after Tara, eyebrows raised sky high, closed the door.

 

_“Thank you for being here, Doctor Reid. It is a gesture I think Fabian would have appreciated.”_

_A cool fall wind was swirling crisp leaves around and tugging at the thirty-something woman’s long, straightened hair; she battled with it to keep her eyes and mouth clear. She was dressed in a black suit, as was he, and her face was free of makeup but for a muted shade of color on her lips._

_“Thank you. I, I wasn’t sure I should intrude, Miss, erm...” No need to ask how she knew his name._

_She extended a hand, and after a beat too long, he reached out and shook it. “Legrand. Fabian was my baby brother.”_

_“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Legrand.”_

_She wrinkled her nose at the platitude. “I said my goodbyes many months ago, Doctor Reid. And now, thanks to you, his tormentors will rot in jail. At least mine is one of the lucky families, is it not? We have a body to bury.” A wistful sigh escaped her. “Such a waste. My brother was a gentle, happy soul; I find the thought of them crushing his carefree spirit the hardest thing to bear.” She turned knowing eyes to him. “But crush it they did.”_

_“Yes,” he agreed._

_She bobbed down and placed a rose on the fresh earth of her brother’s grave, then reached out her empty hand to caress the inscription on his gravestone. “They showed us a photograph. You all wrote your names. How long did it take until you added yours?”_

_A baking hot August day. A burning brand on his hand. A piece of gravel scratching over and over at blurry roughened wood._

_He came back to himself before she noticed anything amiss. He cleared his throat. “The last day. Day five.”_

_“And that was the day you accepted you would also become one of their victims?”_

_“That was the day I felt I needed to leave a mark in case my team didn’t... didn’t find me in time.”_

_She leaned forward and kissed the stone, then rubbed off the smear of lipstick with her thumb. “That is the same thing, I think.”_

_“Perhaps. I’d seen the case file, so I knew what was coming.”_

_She stood up and faced him. “I suspect one did not need a case file to guess at the ending, Doctor Reid.”_

_He accepted this with a nod, and they walked without words towards the waiting cars. As they drew near, she halted, and he could tell she had something to ask that she was struggling to articulate. “You need to know how long?” Spencer guessed._

_She thought his words over. “Yes. I know he suffered for fifteen days, but I do not know for how long he lived without hope.”_

_Spencer slid his fingers over his brand. It itched. “I believe the day he truly gave up hope would have been the day that he died. Until then, Imogen Miller was getting what she wanted from him.”_

_“And what was that?”_

_He wrapped his coat a little tighter against the chill. Phantom hands reached out and pushed his body into a space too small to hold it. Lascivious and curious eyes alike watched his torment. “Disbelief at her cruelty,” he replied, and couldn’t stop the shudder which ran through him._


	14. Chapter 14

If the sky that we look upon / Should tumble and fall  
Or the mountains should crumble to the sea  
I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

~ Ben E King, Stand by me

* * *

The EMTs had checked him out and declared him well enough for a non-emergency admission to hospital, so he and JJ had borrowed a vehicle from the police and - even better - he’d convinced her to stop for food on the way. JJ’s phone rang while he was all-but inhaling the take-out; she tossed her cell across to him to answer while she continued driving, so there was a comedy moment of juggling phone and food before he hit the right button and replied, “Reid.”

“We’ve got a situation.” Prentiss was at her most crisp. “Put me on speaker. You’re both going to need to hear this.”

He did so. “Go ahead, Emily.” JJ took her eyes from the traffic to glance at him, and he shrugged his ignorance.

“We’ve located our missing unsub,” their boss informed them. “But unfortunately, that’s where the good news stops.”

 

The remaining three BAU agents had wrapped at the farm, turned the scene over to LEOs, and had been driving back to downtown when their radio had crackled. “Hostage situation Fairfax Station,” the dispatcher had announced. “Casualties, including one unconfirmed fatality, reported at the scene. Suspect is broadcasting on the LT-Q channel.”

“Never stops, huh,” Alvez had said, and they’d murmured their agreement, knowing that a different BAU team would be called upon if a negotiator was required.

“Suspect has threatened more lives if the station is taken off air,” the voice had continued, “And has identified herself as an Imogen Miller.”

Luke had floored the pedal. Rossi had punched the lights. Emily had drawn out her cell. “Holy crap,” one of them had said.

 

“Reid, we profiled a dominant sexually-motivated vigilante psychopath. Have you got anything else to add?”

“She wasn’t the vigilante - that was her partner. I think he basically picked the, uh, victims, and then she did her thing.” This was not how he’d pictured telling the team, and he wiped a suddenly clammy palm against his pants. “She has a humiliation kink. Whatever she’s planning in there is likely to be mortifying rather than fatal for the hostages.”

“Well, that’s not what we’re seeing. She’s already killed the sound technician. Whatever she wants, she’s prepared to kill for it. Look, I’ve got to go: we’re arriving at the scene.”

Reid’s mind whirred, and after a while JJ said, “What are you thinking, Spence?”

“There’s something not quite... I mean, this isn’t consistent with her behavior up to now. I profiled her public persona as someone you’d trust to get the job done, but not necessarily pay too much attention to.”

“She’s actually the CEO of a work placement agency.”

Reid furrowed his brow. “Well that still doesn’t explain why she’d break her pattern by taking hostages and commandeering a TV studio. Her MO is more to warp the mundane. This is too dramatic.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “What am I not seeing?”

“Could something have triggered a change in her routine?” JJ suggested. “Other than Poolei’s arrest because there wouldn’t have been time for her to get from work to the station.”

“My escape,” Reid concluded glumly.

JJ winced. “Somehow she knows you’re not there anymore.”

“And for whatever reason, she’s not running.”

 

Emily caught Rossi’s eye and nodded. He picked up the phone and dialed into the studio. On the screen monitoring the channel in the incident truck, the hostages’ heads all swiveled to the desk in the center of the screen. “Ringing phone heard,” said the person listening to the broadcast audio.

The view switched to show a manicured hand lifting the handset. “This is Imogen,” said a voice over the phone. “To whom am I speaking?”

“Suspect has identified herself,” said the audio monitor. A supervisor tapped the monitor on the shoulder and shushed them to silence.

“My name is David Rossi. I’m a federal agent.” He stroked his chin. “Imogen, all we want is to end this without anyone else getting hurt.”

“Agent Reid and I need to have a conversation first,” came the reply. “Then we’ll see.”

“I’m afraid Dr Reid’s whereabouts have been unknown since he was abducted at the weekend.”

“You rescued him.” The reply was sharp. “Don’t play games with me, Agent Rossi. Get him on audio within the next five minutes or I cut off someone’s ear.”

 

“She’ll do it,” Reid confirmed when they told him. “She always followed through on her threats.”

Emily bit her lip, torn with indecision. While he’d handled himself well with Poolei, they hadn’t yet had the opportunity to debrief the agent about his abduction.

“I can talk to her,” Reid said. His voice sounded sure and resolute. “Emily, saving people is what I do. I’m trained in hostage negotiation just as much as you and Rossi, and I _know_ this woman.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “We’ll patch both of your comms into Rossi’s line and hear what she wants. I don’t need to tell you not to do anything she asks until I clear it with JJ first.”

 

“How long until your team is in position?”

The lead of the hostage rescue team grimaced. “We could go in now if you’re prepared to accept casualties. If you want to keep everyone alive, well, we’re still working on that.”

Emily sighed and gave Rossi a nod.

“Agent Reid is on the line, Imogen,” said Rossi.

On the screen above their heads, the unsub took a sharp breath. The camera zoomed in to catch her excitement.

“We are ready to cut this station if we need to, right?” Emily fretted.

The unsub licked her lips and cradled the handset. “Hello, my pet,” she cooed. “Stop just short of 13th Street and walk with your colleague to the junction. Don’t cut the audio. And Agent Reid? While it won’t be you feeling the consequences, don’t forget... there are rules.”

 

In response to a question from Emily, JJ was twisting Reid’s collar around his neck. He heard her swear softly as she found what she was looking for: a discreet GPS pet tracker which Garcia thought had probably alarmed when he’d first left the property and which was currently sending out a steady stream of location updates to their unsub.

Reid himself felt as if he was frozen in place, stress pounded at his temples and his heart was slamming into his chest. This was bad; so very much worse than his team realized, and he had no way of warning them without some unknown penalty befalling the hostages.

“Yeah, I found one,” JJ was saying into her cell. “And he’s freaking out next to me. Do you want me to stop, or carry on to the hospital?”

Reid gasped. As bad as this was, people’s lives were at risk. “Stop!” he mouthed urgently at her. He tapped the upcoming junction on the satnav frantically. “ _Stop_!” he mouthed again.

JJ lost a bit of color. “He’s telling me to stop,” she quavered. “But Emily, he can’t talk.”

 

“Stop and wait in the SUV for backup,” Emily instructed. “Dave, find out why Reid’s suddenly mute.”

“She mentioned ‘rules’,” Luke said. “And Reid was gagged when we found him. I’d guess it’s something to do with that.”

Rossi accepted the suggestion. “Imogen,” he said, opening his audio again, “We’d like to understand why Agent Reid has stopped talking. Can you explain the rules you mentioned?”

“Words will be punished,” Imogen replied. “The rest I’ll let you find out for yourself. Why are they both still sitting in the car?”

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked disingenuously while beside him Emily hurriedly sought Garcia’s input as to how their unsub had eyes on the secondary site before they did.

“I mean that if Agent Reid and his companion don’t get out of that car in the next 10 seconds, this man dies.”

Rossi flicked his eyes to the screen to see a knife placed under the chin of a terrified hostage.

“Prentiss!” he alerted, cutting the audio.

Emily wasted no time. “JJ, get out with Reid and walk to the junction,” she ordered. And then, after Garcia had updated her, “But be aware that the intersection is monitored by webcam. There are images being live streamed to the internet.” She turned to a nearby tech. “I need that feed in here right now.”

 

Reid turned his head robotically as JJ told him about the webcam. His legs felt unsteady and he could already feel a flush of mortification rising in his cheeks. He’d thought himself free of her. Stupid. This was an unsub who obsessively planned everything. He tried to console himself that the grainy images would preclude easy identification when this got started, but it wasn’t really helping.

“There’s someone waiting at the junction,” JJ said, drawing her gun. “Stay back, Spence.”

He didn’t. He might not be able to talk, but he could provide backup. Plus, the bored, slightly bemused man waiting for them didn’t seem the type to be intentionally involved in a nefarious plot.

“Agent Reid?” the man asked, wary of the drawn guns, as they approached. Reid sketched a hand wave of acknowledgement. “I was told to deliver this to you.” He pointed to an open basket at his feet. “It’s just pet supplies. For your... dog.” He tailed off, taking in JJ’s incomprehension, Reid’s anxiety, and the notable lack of dog.

Reid holstered his pistol and bent to pick up the basket, not daring to look too carefully at what awaited him.

“Is it safe?” asked JJ, and Reid nodded, wondering if the contents of a basket sure to bring massive embarrassment to the Bureau could really be called safe. She turned to the man. “Who gave you this?”

“It was an internet order,” the man replied. “Not a customer I’d had before.” He was backing away, and Reid couldn’t blame him.

“We’ll need you to stay here and talk to the police when they arrive,” JJ requested. Reid looked at her more carefully and realized that she had an inkling of what was coming, even if she was still not sure of the details. ‘Some days,’ Reid wanted to tell her, ‘Being the hero means kicking down doors and rescuing the survivors. On days like today it’s just going to mean not running away.’

 

“They’re wearing FBI vests,” Imogen crowed. “Whatever happens, they keep them on.”

Rossi, still in charge of the channel, frowned. “That’s not going to be a problem, Imogen. Those vests are for their safety. They wouldn’t take them off.”

Imogen laughed. It sounded cruel to Rossi’s ears. “I’m sure Agent Reid would beg to differ if he could.” She was eager on the screen above, vibrating with anticipation. “On which subject, let’s get started. Agent Reid, I’d like to see Crash sitting in the center of that intersection. Your friend can do her best to stop the traffic. You’ve two minutes, or hostages start dying.”

 

Emily felt the situation slip out of control. “Does Reid know what this is?” she asked JJ. The webcam feed suddenly appeared on a screen so she was able to watch a few images of the agents’ one-sided conference before she received an answer in the affirmative. “Tell him not to risk your lives then. But if you can buy us time to set up the rescue, you should.”

The next few images showed the two agents briefly embracing, and then Reid was walking out to the center of the busy junction. A moment later JJ ran after him, pulling out her badge and raising her hand at the cars weaving around them.

Luke’s mouth fell open. “I thought you said they shouldn’t risk their lives?” he said.

“Christ,” Emily cursed. “Find out how long until their backup is there. And then tell it to get there faster.”

 

Reid did his best to ignore the cacophony of horns and shouting as he strode out to the center of the junction. He made it with ten seconds to spare on the deadline and, in the sudden calm of the lights changing, heard Imogen humming in the background. JJ was spinning every which way trying to work out where the traffic would come from next, so she had her back to him as he set the basket down, took a very, _very_ deep breath and sank to his knees. He shifted his feet out, leant forward and deliberately placed the palms of his hands on the hot tarmac in front of him. On the feed, Imogen let out a squeal of pure joy, and for a second there was the indistinct background noise of what was presumably pandemonium in the Command Centre until Rossi muted his audio. JJ turned to see what had caused the commotion and their eyes locked. ‘Sorry,’ Reid tried to convey.

“I know, Spence,” she said. “We’ll make it through this. I promise.”

 

In one image the agents had been blocked by a truck. In the next Reid was kneeling ridiculously in the center of the busy downtown junction. _Humiliation_ , he’d said, and Emily finally put that together with the contents of the yard and the positioning of the victims’ bodies to understand what that was going to mean, both for her teammates and the Bureau. This needed urgent containment. “Garcia, isolate that feed! I want it off the net. Two lines only: one into the studio and one here. Luke - get them more backup, and a perimeter established. Get the public away from the site. Rossi, get Imogen to stop this. And someone get me the Assistant Director on the line.” She glanced at the webcam, and swallowed misgivings. There was no way they were going to be fast enough to stop this getting out. Buildings, including a newspaper office, overlooked the road. And Reid had unwittingly chosen an angle where his FBI vest was clearly showing, which just added to the story’s flavor.

 

“Agent Rossi,” Imogen asked. “What is the name of the sweet little thing with Crash?”

Rossi grimaced. “ _Special Supervisory_ Agent Jareau is a highly accomplished federal officer,” he replied. Then added, “As is SSA Reid.”

 

The cars at the front of the line were mercifully halted, so JJ dared breathe again, although she kept her arm extended so there could be no doubt that no one was to pass through the junction.

“Agent Jareau,” Imogen’s voice said. “In the basket you should find a leash. Please affix it to Crash’s collar.”

For a moment, JJ thought she might be sick. Stupidly, she’d anticipated herself here as Reid’s protector, not part of the tableau. She reached out a shaking hand, rooted around in the basket and pulled out the lead. “Guess it’s my turn to be sorry, huh?” she told him, and clipped it on.

“Say ‘thank you,’ Crash.”

Reid swallowed hard, and then barked. JJ felt tears prickling.

One of the drivers at the front climbed from his car and approached as she straightened back up.

“Is this some sort of bet?” he asked, looking down at Reid in confusion. Reid shook his head, not meeting the man’s eyes.

“How long is this going to take?” shouted a woman. Other drivers, more aggressive, simply leant on their horns.

“Please get back in your vehicles,” JJ asserted. But yet another man approached and pulled out a phone to snap a picture. “No!” she despaired.

The man clicked at his phone. “Not every day you see an FBI agent like this. Want to guess how many retweets this will get?”

JJ looked down at her friend. His lips were pressed together so tightly they were white. His breath was hitching, and she could see that his whole body was vibrating. “Please, Sir,” she begged. “Look at him: we’re under duress here and you aren’t helping. Get back in your vehicle.”

He looked at her instead, and JJ had no idea what was showing in her expression but remorse immediately fell across his features. “I’ll delete it,” he offered.

“Thank you,” said JJ. But she could tell by his pained expression when he looked back down at his phone that it was already too late.

 

“We should be prepared for this story to break soon,” Emily told her boss over the phone. “Imogen is obviously keen for the publicity and we’re blocking a major junction in the capital at the start of the rush hour. The web feed’s still up. The scene’s overlooked. Plus, Agent Jareau has reported that a close-up’s gotten out. I need help with the media so I can focus on rescuing the hostages and getting my agents out of there.”

 

Their backup finally arrived, and white and blue tape was spread to create a square island of tarmac around them. Attracted by the barrier, a small crowd of tourists, shoppers and early commuters gathered, the tape and police presence drawing attention to the scene in a way that the traffic snarl-up hadn’t. JJ brazened out the looks of curiosity, amusement, and derision in many of their expressions. A few people were pitying, however, and those she looked away from quickest, heart thudding.

Beyond the line, the cops started to turn vehicles around. Unfortunately, JJ could see a network news van bullishly making its way through the stationary traffic. “Brace yourself, Spence,” she warned. “We’re about go public.”

He looked up at her, misery plastered across his face. “Hey now, Dr Reid,” she cajoled. “Remember you’re stronger than her. Don’t let her into your head.” He responded with the merest nod; JJ fervently hoped that her words were true - that the unsub hadn’t already bested him during his many days of captivity.

“Oh, at last!” Imogen exclaimed over the audio. “Agent Jareau, please take out the dog bowl and fill it with water. I’m sure for the hostages’ sake that Crash is feeling thirsty.”

 

Reid balanced his weight on trembling forearms and dropped his head. His hair fell forward, creating an incomplete, fragile curtain to shut out the journalists and crowd at the police barrier. To a soundtrack of taunts and shouts and Imogen’s hum, he lapped a sip of tepid water. As it hit his stomach, a quake of queasiness rolled through him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and prickled against his scalp. Slowly sticking out his tongue again, he tried hard not to wish himself back in the peaceful, untended backyard.

Of course, Imogen had grander plans. “Time to beg, Crash,” he was ordered.

It almost took more willpower than he had to raise his face into the barrage of smartphones, camera clicks and questions. But he couldn’t leave JJ to deal with this alone. Nor could he give Imogen an excuse to hurt the hostages. He knelt back on his ankles, lowered his eyes, and slowly, reluctantly, curled his hands and raised them to his chest.

For a moment an awed silence fell. Reid’s tenuous control of his breathing evaporated, his ears rang, his vision tunneled, and he could feel he was shaking like a leaf.

“Jesus Christ,” Rossi swore over the audio. “Imogen, can I ask what this is achieving? We can help you, but not when you’re torturing our agent like this.”

 

Emily turned at Rossi’s outburst, surprised at the reaction from the experienced negotiator. He pointed to yet another screen, hidden from Emily by a partition. She walked across to view it. “Oh my god,” she said.

Reid filled the image, his white, bruised face contrasting sharply with the black of his FBI vest, a leash clearly attached to the prominent leather collar around his neck. He looked on the point of collapse. The ‘Breaking News’ scrolling text announced this to be the missing undercover FBI agent Doctor Spencer Reid whose actions were unexplained at this time.

“How did they get his name so quickly?” Luke asked.

“It wouldn’t be difficult. He’s done press conferences for us,” Emily replied.

“He’s also published his name in academic papers. Someone probably recognized him when we issued the statement about him being undercover,” added Rossi.

The hostage rescue team leader tapped Emily on the shoulder, drawing her away. “We’ll be in position in two minutes,” she said. “And then can go on your command. But my advice is...” The woman hesitated.

“Wait until she’s distracted?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It makes sense. I can compartmentalize.”

 

Imogen’s focus was entirely on the screen, drinking in all Crash’s anguish, the hostages almost ignored. She licked her finger and dragged it slowly down the agent’s cheek, then closed her eyes and let her eidetic memory run a replay.

Oh yes, this pet had proved to be worth all the risk that came with kidnapping a cop.

“Bark at those nasty reporters, Crash,” she demanded, and keened at the despairing gasp he let slip before tremulous yips began.

 

“In position.”

“On my mark,” Emily said. “Three...”

 

“Agent Jareau, take out the ball, roll it towards the cameras and tell your friend to fetch.”

It was about the size of a tennis ball, made of lightweight foam and colored luminous green. Police, media, and gawking public alike swung their attention to her as she palmed it, knelt beside her colleague, and gently said, “Spence.”

He didn’t react, so she put a hand on the crown of his head and shushed him. “Spencer,” she said more firmly.

Unfocused eyes turned her way so she waved the ball in her friend’s eye line until it caught his attention. Her heart broke for him. “Spence, you need to fetch this,” she said, and let it bob away from them towards the crowd. A slight slope accelerated it; one of the reporters stuck a foot out to stop it disappearing under the tape then, with an apologetic look at JJ, nudged it back into the junction so it came to rest the perfect distance from his camera.

With a sob of pain, Reid fell forward onto his hands and knees and started crawling.

 

“Two...”

 

“Crash, stay!” Spencer froze with the ball caught in his mouth, the glass lens of a camera staring unblinking back at him.

“Agent Rossi? I believe I am finished with Agent Reid. I surrender.”

For long moments, Spencer hardly dared breathe, until finally Rossi’s voice told him it was over. He closed his eyes, pulled the ball from his mouth, sat back and blindly released the leash, tossing it violently away. Wrapping his arms around his grazed knees, he rested his head down, gasping hitched breaths and fighting the temptation to sob. The crowd quietened, sensing events were happening.

JJ’s arm fell on his shoulder. “Get up,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ve done the hard part. Now you just need to walk away with your head held high.”

She helped him stand and take a step away. “Doctor Reid?” a voice called out, and he staggered with the shock of them knowing his name. “What was that all about?”

“Agent Jareau, why was this federal agent pretending to be a dog?”

“The FBI have just issued a statement saying you’re linked to the hostage drama at the TV station, Agent Reid. Do you have any comment?”

“Reid,” Rossi’s voice came over the comm. “If you’re able to do so, turn to the cameras and tell them that you’re proud to have saved lives today through your actions. We’ll pick the rest up for you.”

JJ squeezed his arm and swung them both around; he found himself facing the pack again. He attempted to speak, and found he couldn’t. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m proud,” he choked out, and faltered to a stop. He didn’t sound proud. He sounded petrified.

JJ gave him a moment, then squeezed his arm again. “I think what Doctor Reid is trying to say,” she informed them, her voice unnaturally tight, “Is that under extraordinarily difficult circumstances, he has selflessly protected many lives today through his actions here.” She took a steadying breath, held up her hand and waited until the questions died down before speaking again. “I need you to know that this man is a hero, and I couldn’t be prouder to stand beside him.”

And then she was steering him away towards the sanctuary of their car and a waiting police driver. The moment the car door closed, Reid let the devastated tears fall, JJ’s motherly embrace at last hiding his face from prying cameras.


	15. Chapter 15

Sometimes you can only find Heaven by slowly backing away from Hell. ~ Carrie Fisher

* * *

As Prentiss walked into the station, the noise levels notably dropped. She didn’t particularly care, and certainly wasn’t flustered by it: being a federal officer often meant walking into situations where her presence was neither welcomed nor appreciated.

Beside her, Luke made a pantomime of sniffing an armpit. “Nope, not me,” he concluded, managing to flip the bird at the entire room when he dropped his arm.

She rolled her eyes at him as the lead detective walked up. “So that’s it,” he said.

“Yes,” Emily agreed. “You know where to find us if you need any further assistance.”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Of course, we’ll need to get Agent Reid’s statement.”

Someone behind them softly barked and quiet laughter followed. Emily clenched her hands to keep her cool. “Of course.” She pushed past him and added as if as an afterthought, “I’ll be sure to send you his debrief transcript tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I meant,” the detective objected, but Emily was far enough away by then to pretend not to hear. Luke shrugged at him, and walked after her.

They entered the conference room to find Matt and Tara packing away the last of their things.

“Any news?” asked Matt.

Emily nodded. “Reid’s discharged. Rossi’s taken them both back to his place: didn’t feel Reid was in any state to look after his mother yet.” She watched as Luke pushed a chair back into place. “We’re invited too once we’re done.”

Tara cast a disparaging glance around the mostly empty room, “Oh, I think we’re done.”

She needed no further prompting. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

They were greeted at Rossi’s door by a pinned note: _Side gate – be quiet_.

Creeping round, they found Reid asleep, sprawled on a lounge seat on the back veranda, Michael snuggled in beside him. The agent had showered and changed; sleep lent him an ostensibly trouble-free countenance, but Emily could easily pick out signs of his adventures: fresh bandages on his arm and hand, red patches on his neck, and bruises on his face.

She waved silently at Henry as he took his nose briefly out of a book. “Uncle Spence is tired,” Henry offered, failing to keep his voice down. Reid jerked briefly before his breathing evened out again.

“I can see that,” Emily whispered when she felt her colleague had fallen back asleep. “Guess I should leave him be, huh?”

Drinks were laid on one of the tables. She picked up a glass of wine and drifted away to the lawn where she could see Rossi talking to JJ and Will. “Hey,” she greeted them as she drew close, “Am I interrupting?”

JJ’s face swung to hers. In the dusky light, it looked unnaturally pinched. “I’m so sorry, Emily,” JJ said. “I couldn’t think what else to do.” Will reached out to comfort her and she shuddered into his embrace.

Emily’s mouth dropped. “Jayje, this wasn’t your fault.” Her friend trembled at the words. “JJ, no. Don’t take this all on yourself. You think Reid didn’t know what he was doing?”

JJ wordlessly shook her head in answer.

“JJ.” Rossi put a gentling hand on her arm. “The kid’s brilliant: he’d have known the statistics for fatality rates in armed interventions, and he’d have calculated the outcome of a hundred different ways of handling the situation.”

“You weren’t there.” She hiccupped a sob. “At the end, he… it was like talking to a _child_.”

“He still made a choice, JJ,” reasoned Emily. “He could have asked me to go in at the start all guns blazing, but he put himself in harm’s way to protect the hostages instead.”

“I’m media trained. There should have been something...” She dashed away a tear from her cheek.

Will caught her chin and gently turned her face to him. “Honey, you’ve had 3 hours now for that media trained brain of yours to work out whatever that ‘something’ should’ve been. I reckon if you don’t know it yet, maybe you should give yourself a break.”

Rossi raised his glass in Will’s direction. “He’s talking sense, you know.”

JJ blinked hard to banish her tears. “I know. It’s just, it’s hard to accept what happened. And that I had a part in it.”

“Hey, if it helps, I’m glad it was you with Reid,” Emily consoled. “You put a human face to it. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere else but there. I’d have shut off my emotions and come across as worse than the unsub.”

“I’d probably have died of a heart attack getting onto the junction,” Rossi added. “I nearly did just watching you.”

“And can you imagine Luke?” Emily’s mouth curled upwards. “He’d have gotten into it. Imogen wouldn’t have had a look in.”

Despite herself, JJ laughed at the ridiculous suggestion. “Don’t be so mean, Emily. He wouldn’t.”

Emily grinned and conceded the point over a sip of her drink.

“Still, Imogen had one good idea,” Will mused. “Tagging Spence. How many times is that now?”

“That he’s gone missing? Who knows? Maybe I’ll make a note to ask Garcia to look into the possibility.”

The others, drinks collected and Reid checked on, drifted into the group. Tara dared to ask the question which was troubling them all. “What’s this going to mean for you and Reid, JJ? Publicly.”

JJ glanced across at her husband. “From what Will’s caught on the news, we think the Bureau killed the story with their press statement.”

“I think it might have been more to do with their mention of a possible defamation lawsuit,” Rossi corrected with a sly smile. “Which isn’t exactly in accordance with the First Amendment, but whatever works.”

JJ raised her eyebrows. “They didn’t?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny, kiddo.”

Tara frowned. “So, the story’s gone?”

“Well,” JJ thought for a moment. “I guess anyone who caught it at the time will remember it. And anyone with a connection to us or the FBI - colleagues, our friends and family and so on - will know about it too. And it’ll be on the internet, so we’ll come up in searches. But if the news cycle has moved on so quickly, then it could be a lot worse.”

“How about at work?” Matt asked.

Luke glanced across at Emily. “We had a bit of a reaction at the station, but nothing we won’t be able to handle moving forward.”

“Yes,” Emily agreed. “Unfortunately, I think every FBI agent can look forward to some ridicule, us especially. And I’m sure that we’ll also experience some resentment from other teams about placing them in that position.”

“But they’ll forget eventually?”

“Sure. I haven’t been reminded not to call my Wi-Fi hub ‘FBI Surveillance Van’ for years.”

Rossi laughed. “God, I’d forgotten about that. Some idiots on a stakeout in Florida, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that. But it was as embarrassing as hell for them at the time.”

Luke looked relieved. “So, ‘ _hang in there, it won’t last_ ’ is going to be our advice?”

“I could drink to that,” Rossi agreed.

“Uh guys,” Matt cleared his throat. “You need to hear what Garcia has to say first.”

Their analyst cast a wide-eyed, worried look at them and blurted out, “Reid’s becoming a meme. Well, there’s a possibility. I mean, there are already some of him out there, although trying to predict a viral meme is like trying to predict who will win the Spelling Bee this year.”

“Meme?” JJ asked. “You mean like Grumpy Cat?”

Garcia nodded unhappily.

Luke frowned. “You know, he’d be pretty recognizable if one did take off. He’s got a distinctive look.”

“Are you telling me,” Emily said slowly, “That Reid may need to get used to the ‘oh my god you were _that_ agent’ reaction?”

“You could try changing your hairstyle,” Tara suggested, looking beyond the group.

They turned. Reid ran a shaky hand through his hair and shrugged. “Memes are often characterized by a short shelf life but high penetration into social media. 71% of internet users in the United States accessed social media sites as of January this year. Which is more than Canada, but less than UAE where the figure is actually 99% of users.” He realized he was rambling. “Sorry. Look, I, I don’t know how I feel about this at the moment. Could we change the subject?”

Rossi drew him into the group. “We can indeed,” he declared. “What’s everyone planning during their stand down? I’ve promised the kid we’ll visit Diana this weekend.”

 

Spencer held his hand steady as inquisitive fingers lightly traced over his healing brand. The angry burn was already fading to white scarring just below his knuckles. The doctors had told him the marks were permanent without treatment.

“I used to call my son that,” Diana murmured.

“I know, mom.”

But she was caught up in her memories. “He used to be so clumsy!” she reminisced. “Always with his head in a book.” She sighed. “I haven’t seen him in years now. The Feds won’t let him out.”

“I’m right here, mom.”

“I can see you are,” she smiled, and she moved her hand up to caress his bruised face. “Still bumping into things I see.”

“It’s sort of an occupational hazard.”

Diana made a moue of concern and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “You should take better care of yourself, Spencer.” He kept still as she contemplated him. “You’re too thin. Please tell me those fascists are feeding you?” She indicated Rossi, and Reid winced.

“I missed a few meals, mom, but I’m back to a regular diet again now. And don’t point at my friend like that. Remember? That’s Rossi.”

“Rossi.” Diana nodded compliantly a few times then frowned. “He looks like a typical government stooge to me.” Over Spencer’s objections, she turned on him. “Get out!” she shouted. “Go on! Get out! I’m just visiting my son.”

Rossi indicated he’d go to the kitchen and backed away. “Mom, you do know you’re home, don’t you?” Spencer asked. “That this is where we live?”

Diana turned a calm face towards him. “You’re always away, Spencer,” she sighed. “Not that it’s not nice to see you now.”

“I’m sorry for not being here recently,” Spencer apologized, rubbing anxiously at his brand. “Do you remember any of what happened?”

She stared silently at him, and Reid, unable to read her, felt compelled to fill the silence. “You left the flat. There was a man who took you. He dropped you at an animal shelter.”

“There were police,” Diana accused. “They were interrogating me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Reid repeated. “They were looking for me.”

“But you’re here,” his mom said.

Reid felt his vision narrow again. “I wasn’t then.” His voice cracked a little. “I was chained to a tree, mom.” She stilled his hand from where it was compulsively rubbing the brand and entwined their fingers. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“Oh honey, what happened?” she asked.

 _A knife slowly cutting along his arm. His protesting body pressed into a tiny cage. All the world witnessing him beg for clemency_. Spencer gasped himself back into the present and gently took her hand in his. “I got outmaneuvered by a psychopath,” he confessed softly, caressing her fingers. “I was kept in a backyard. It was peaceful there.” He breathed: in then out then in again. “I had, had to pretend to be a, a dog or I was punished.” He could feel his heart rate soaring and his ears were faintly ringing again. “And then I, I escaped and she made me… she made me…” He sat suspended and conflicted for countless silent seconds. But it was no good, he couldn’t continue.

His mother sat quietly for a while, but eventually she roused herself. “She made you what?”

He could see that she was just prompting his story, not judging him one way or the other. Spencer pulled away and placed his hands, palms together, between his knees. He bowed his head. “Agent Reid,” he droned, “I’d like to see Crash sitting in the center of that intersection. Your friend can do her best to stop the traffic.” He swallowed. “You’ve two minutes, or hostages start dying. Agent Jareau, in the basket you should find a leash. Please affix it to Crash’s collar.” What his mother was making of this, he couldn’t imagine, but the monotone words spilled out anyway, the gush of recollection pulled from his eidetic memory and as unemotional as it had been during his debrief. “Say ‘thank you,’ Crash. Woof. Agent Jareau, please take out the dog bowl and fill it with water. I’m sure for the hostages’ sake that Crash is feeling thirsty. Time to beg, Crash. Bark at those nasty reporters, Crash. Woof, woof, woof. Agent Jareau, take out the ball, roll it towards the cameras and tell your friend to fetch.”

He stopped. His knee was jittering, but at least he still knew where he was. He didn’t dare look across at his mother.

“Well, that’s not very nice,” she commented.

He gasped a laugh. “No. It really wasn’t.” He sat, lost in thought, while the ringing in his ears faded; eventually he could hear Rossi clattering around in the kitchen.

She leaned close. “How about you tell the nurse not to give me the pills?” she confided. “You’ll go as soon as they do.”

Spencer shrunk further into himself. “Mom, I’m not a delusion.”

Rossi chose that moment to return, mugs and cookies piled on a tray. “Coffee?” he asked.

Reid took a mug and placed it carefully on the table. She watched him do it, frowning, and caught his hand. “I used to call my son ‘Crash’,” she said, and traced her fingers over his healing brand.

Spencer swallowed. “Yes, I know.” He threw a desolate look at Rossi.

The older agent helped himself to a cookie and sat down. Making himself comfortable, he pulled across Diana’s scrapbook and opened it to a page at random. “I’m sure you’re very proud of your son, Mrs Reid. Why don’t you tell us about him?”

His mom looked first at Rossi and then back to Spencer in pleased surprise, albeit with no recognition in her eyes. “I’d like that,” she agreed. “The government took him away, you see. I miss him so much, but he’s always in here.” And she tapped the side of her head.

Rossi smiled gently. “I’m sure he is, Diana,” he said. “And I know that Spencer cares very much for you too.” He turned the scrapbook around so she could see the picture. “What was happening here? It looks like Spencer has some books.”

“Oh yes. Always with his head in a book was Crash. We’d read classics together.”

“‘… _from afar off I can see it, as we return from our walk, with its lamp shining through the window, a solitary beacon in the night_ ’,” softly quoted Spencer.

“Proust, yes,” his mother nodded, obviously impressed he knew the quote. “That book was our favorite around the time my husband William left.” She threw him a shrewd look. “‘ _We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full._ ’”

“Amen to that,” agreed Rossi. “I believe my colleague would have to agree he has _definitely_ been following that advice.”

 

“Hey,” Reid said, sliding around the door jamb into her office.

“Hey, junior G-man! How come you’re here this bright and sunny Tuesday morning?”

“My Return to Work assessment.”

“Oh.” She contemplated him. With his sunken eyes and uncertain demeanor, he didn’t look particularly ready. A thought struck her. “How did you get here? Rossi’s been at work for hours.”

With an expression which made it clear he thought she was idiotic for ever asking, Reid replied, “I took the bus.”

Garcia clutched the arms of her chair in alarm. “And you didn’t think that maybe being in public on your own might be a bad idea at the moment?”

Irritation flared in his expression. “Nothing happened, Garcia.”

“No one recognized you? No funny looks?”

“Not that I noticed, no.”

“Maybe it worked then,” she muttered, as much to herself as to him.

“What worked?” He was instantly suspicious. “Garcia?”

“Well, it’s just,” she squirmed a bit. “Look, there was one picture that kept cropping up with text like ‘Bad day? Not this bad.’ And so on. Well, actually, that one was quite tame.” She took a breath. “Moving on. I may possibly have enhanced the picture to show your FBI vest a bit better and, and, the, _urgh_ , the _thing_ round your neck, but along the way I may also have accidentally tweaked some of your facial features. And hair. Basically, you don’t look so much like you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’ve, erm, I’ve launched a meme of you. Well, more the _idea_ of you. It’s not exactly trending, but the new ones I’m seeing out there are using my version of the image.” She twisted her necklace. “I know I shouldn’t have. But there was no way of stopping this once it got started. I thought I’d at least try to make it so you aren’t recognized everywhere you go. Please say you’re okay with this.”

“Won’t the Bureau find out?” Reid asked, aghast.

“Well, yes. But they will never be able to _prove_ I did it.”

Reid searched her expression for the truth. She held his gaze, and after a short while he relaxed. “So, I owe you one?” he checked.

“You owe me big time, Buster,” she confirmed with a grin. “Now, shoo. Go. Get assessed.”

He nodded and headed out, only to reappear just as she’d turned back to her screen. “Garcia?” She looked back at him. He raised a wan smile. “Thank you. I think.”

_“Look who it is! Good to see you, kiddo.” Rossi shifted up a seat on the jet so that Reid could slide in next to him. “Does this mean you’ve been cleared, or did you spin Prentiss some shaggy dog story?”_

_Reid froze in the act of pulling his bag strap over his head; opposite, JJ choked on her glass of water and there was a gasp of surprise from the direction of Alvez and Simmons who had embarked just in time to hear his words. “Too soon?” Rossi queried, lips quirking in a smile._

_“No, no, erm.” Reid got his arms moving again with an obvious effort, dropping the strap into his lap. “I, I was a bit hangdog not to be in the field.”_

_“That’s the spirit,” Rossi encouraged._

_Alvez sat next to JJ and studied their faces carefully. “Okay,” he accepted, seeing that the exchange hadn’t caused upset. “It’s a dog eat dog world after all. Good to have you join us, Reid.”_

_JJ smiled across at her friend. “It really is.”_

_Matt put his hand on Reid’s shoulder. “Every dog has its day,” he offered. “And I’m glad you’re back too.”_

_Tara perched on the side cupboard. “We’ve missed your insights, Doctor Reid. We tried to train Rossi up, but you know what they say: you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”_

_“Hey! Who are you calling old?” the man himself mock protested, pleased at the relaxed atmosphere. “I’m just a little dog-eared around the edges.”_

_“Dog’s dinner, more like,” teased Tara into the general merriment._

_Emily returned from the cockpit and picked up the remote. “Let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” she suggested, her serious tone offset by the twinkle in her eye. “Garcia, we’ve got a case waiting for us in Texas. What can you tell us?”_

 

THE END

-~-

**A/N**

 No dogs were harmed during the filming of this episode. The cat got sick and somebody shot a duck but that's about it. ~ The Simpsons

* * *

Thank you so very much to all of you who have read, commented, given kudos, hit subscribe or bookmarked this story. What you’ve just read was the best I could make it, flaws and all, so it’s been amazing getting your feedback, and definitely settled my nerves as I posted this monster. I set out to craft the sort of unsettling tale that I love reading, but along the way I somehow ended up writing a story with flashbacks embedded in flash-forwards... I do hope you haven’t been too confused by it.

I’d love to hear from you if you’d like to comment.

Best wishes,

SailorSue


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